


Sore Spot

by Deastar



Series: They Say Love Heals All Wounds [21]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Established Relationship, M/M, Soul Bond, Therapy, emotional homework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18529522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: He’d done it just the way he was supposed to: at the end of dinner, sitting at the dining room table, in a place and at a time when they both knew they wouldn’t be having sex right after. When he’d imagined how it would go, he’d thought Geno would be happy, or maybe even—maybe even proud. Proud that Sid was communicating, asking for what he wanted. Proud that Sid was trying new things, even though it was hard.





	Sore Spot

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up shortly after [Spiral Bound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256516) ends, and doesn't stand alone particularly well, so I would recommend that you read the rest of the series first.
> 
> Content Warnings: This fic is about a character’s efforts to reintroduce into his sex life an act that is associated with a past trauma. That past trauma is not discussed in detail—and won’t make any sense anyway if you haven’t read the first story in this series—but the fic alludes to it repeatedly and it is integral to the story. Also, please note that this fic is not intended to represent every person’s experience of trauma or flashbacks or therapy or recovery.
> 
> I hope these warnings assist readers concerned about potentially triggering material, but I worry that they make the story sound dark and depressing, so let me assure you: despite the sometimes-heavy subject matter, this fic also contains jokes, cuteness, enough sweet stuff to rot your teeth, and lots of kissing – I promise.
> 
> Thank you to [chickenlivesinpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin) for telling me the story needed at least 10,000 more words *headdesk* and many other hard truths, and to [Paranault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranault/pseuds/paranault) for pointing out everything from POV problems to extraneous adverbs.

When it’s over—

Fuck, Sid doesn’t even know if it _is_ over.

But when it _feels_ like it’s over, at least, Sid just sits there—alone in the dining room, pulse racing, face flushed, hands shaking—and thinks numbly, _I don’t even know what just happened. I don’t even—_

He’d done it just the way he was supposed to: at the end of dinner, sitting at the dining room table, in a place and at a time when they both knew they wouldn’t be having sex right after. When he’d imagined how it would go, he’d thought Geno would be happy, or maybe even—maybe even proud. Proud that Sid was communicating, asking for what he wanted. Proud that Sid was trying new things, even though it was hard.

It was only a week ago, after all, that they’d finally had their first successful blowjob experiment. Geno’d been proud of Sid _then_.

But tonight, when Sid had pushed aside his nerves and told Geno, voice shaky, “Hey, I want you to—you should fuck me. I think—I’m ready,” Geno had acted like—like Sid was crazy.

Not at first – at first, Geno had just seemed hesitant, like Sid had thought he might. “For sure, someday, is good, if you want,” he said, and Sid had kicked himself for not being clear enough.

“Not just someday,” he said, leaning forward over the table and holding Geno’s gaze, so Geno would know he was serious. “Tonight.” His leg started bouncing under the table; he made it stop.

Geno looked uneasy. “Sid, already is a lot of change – just do first blowjob last week. This is even more big step, I think, and is not enough time—”

“It’s—I don’t need more time,” Sid interrupted. His pulse started to speed up – it was really important to make sure that Geno got it, that he understood that there was no reason to wait. “Now is—now is a good time. The _best_ time. Because it’s so soon after the blowjob stuff, it’s all, like, fresh in my mind, and I’m—I’m ready,” he says, holding Geno’s gaze and dropping his shields to make extra sure that Geno can feel his sincerity. “I’m a hundred percent ready, and it’s—it’s going to be so good, I want this so m—”

And then Sid had broken off, because something was passing over Geno’s face – something big, and dark, and completely beyond Sid’s ability to decipher. Whatever it was—and oh, Sid wished then and wishes even harder now that just this one time, he could have read Geno like Geno can read him—it made Sid’s stomach lurch. And that was the right response, because it was after that moment that things went bad.

“You not,” Geno had bitten out, face closed, arms crossed over his chest.

“Not what?”

“Not ready. Not _want_ —” and Geno’s voice had cracked, and he’d tucked his head down toward his chest, hiding his face for a second.

“Geno, what’s going on?”

“You tell me, Sid,” Geno insisted, bafflingly. “ _You_ tell _me_ what’s going on.” He looked almost wounded.

Sid had wanted to help, had wanted to make things okay, so he’d tried to take Geno’s demand at face value. “We—we had dinner. Um. And then I told you that I want you to fuck me, that I’m ready for that, and then you—you didn’t like it.” Uncertain, small, he offered, “I thought you’d like it.”

Geno sighed explosively and dropped his head into his hands. “Sid, fuck – stop think about that, is bad—”

_Maybe he doesn’t want to_ , was all Sid could think, bewildered. “If—if you don’t want to fuck me, of course we don’t have to,” he tried, but that just earned him another frustrated sigh.

“Right, so this is rule for me,” Geno said, sarcastically, “but not rule for Sid, oh no.”

“What does that even _mean_?” burst out of Sid’s mouth, and he’d been appalled at himself immediately for raising his voice, which is sort of horribly funny in retrospect. “I’m telling you what I want, and you’re just saying this weird stuff about—rules, and how I should stop thinking about things—”

Geno interrupted, “You telling me what you want, huh? What you really want?” His gaze was challenging.

Sid met that gaze without backing down. “I am. I did.” There were a lot of things he wasn’t very clear on right then, but he was crystal clear about that. He wanted Geno to fuck him, and he didn’t want to wait.  He was ready to move forward. He knew that in his bones.

But Geno shook his head. Still holding Sid’s gaze, he said, “Bull. Shit.”

“What the fuck, Ge—”

“Bullshit,” Geno said again. “Bullshit, _bullshit_ , bullshit,” working himself up with each repetition.

Even more bewildered than before, Sid asked, “Geno, what are you… what’s—I don’t understand, _what’s_ bullshit, I’m not—”

“Say again, Sid,” Geno told him, looking directly at him. His hands were clenched, white, on the edge of the table. “Say you want, you want we go to bedroom _right now_ and I fuck you—”

“But I did say it,” Sid protested. “I said I wanted you to fuck me, tonight, I know you heard me…” His head felt like it was spinning.

“You say, yes,” Geno said, and he’d dragged in an intentional breath, clearly making an effort to keep himself under control. “But Sid, this is problem, because you say, but you don’t _mean_.”

Stung, Sid had flinched away. “I _do_ mean it,” he said hotly. “I wouldn’t—I’m not leading you _on_ —”

At that, Geno had made this—this sort of… of _roaring_ sound, Sid remembers, and that had been the end of Geno’s attempts to take deep breaths and be reasonable.

He’d kept telling Sid, over and over again, increasingly profanely, that Sid was full of shit, that he didn’t really want Geno to fuck him, that he wasn’t ready.

Floundering, Sid had kept insisting that he _was_ ready, that he _did_ want it, which paradoxically only seemed to make Geno angrier.

Sid tried so fucking hard to keep his own temper in check, to meet Geno’s anger with calm, but he’s only human, and eventually, he’d snapped, “I’m a fucking adult, Geno – you don’t get to decide what I’m ready for or not ready for.”

Geno’s face had flared red, like Sid had slapped him. “Oh, so _I’m_ bad guy now?”

“No one is the bad guy, there is no bad guy,” Sid had tried, but there was a traitorous voice in the back of his head saying, _Yeah, you’re the guy who started yelling at me over nothing and keeps treating me like a fucking idiot, so yeah, you really are the bad guy here,_ and the thing about being bonded to a reader is that you don’t get to keep thoughts like that to yourself.

“So much _lie_ ,” Geno spat, and Sid hated that, he fucking hated that. He hated that Geno would always, always know, that Sid could never count on any fucking privacy even in his own head, and all the while, Sid _never_ got to know, and Geno could pull inexplicable shit like this whole argument and Sid just had to stumble through it blindly, it was so _unfair_ —

It makes Sid sick to think about it now, when he’s cooled off some – how close he came to saying that stuff out loud. To saying that he hates their bond, their _relationship_. The imbalance… it’s hard, sometimes. He knew it would be. But he wouldn’t trade his bond with Geno for anything.

At the time, though, that feeling was pretty hard to reach.

And Geno wouldn’t fucking bend an inch, and everything Sid said seemed to just piss him off more, so eventually, Sid gave up trying not to bite back.

“If this is what you really think,” he hissed, blinking back the stupid wetness in his eyes, “that I’m so fucking pathetic, so _fragile_ , then maybe you shouldn’t fucking touch me at all.”

He’d been shocked—as shocked as if he’d been plunged into ice water—when Geno had flinched, horribly, and started to cry.

“No,” Sid had whispered, numb, reaching across the table.

But Geno had avoided Sid’s touch—and oh, that hurt so much—and wiped his eyes, and then he’d said, with a voice like gravel and his eyes fixed on his own hands, “Shouldn’t touch. Yes. Maybe yes, maybe should _never_ touch, I—”

Abruptly, he’d pushed back his chair and walked out of the room without looking at Sid.

That was twenty minutes ago, and Sid has been sitting here dumbly ever since. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for: for Geno to come back, for what just happened between them to suddenly make sense—

“I don’t know,” Sid whispers.

He feels like shit in about ten different ways. He’s hurt, obviously, and still terribly confused, remorseful at having hurt Geno, which he clearly did… and, he can admit to himself, he’s still angry, too.

_What right does he have,_ Sid can’t help thinking, _to tell me what I’m ready for?_ _To assume he gets to make that decision for me instead of trusting me, instead of listening_—

God, it pisses Sid off… and then he feels guilty for _being_ pissed off, because he can tell he’d hurt Geno really badly at the end, even if—again—he doesn’t fucking understand _why_ , why those words had affected Geno so powerfully, and that confusion makes him pissed off all over again.

_I can’t sit here and stew like this_ , he thinks. He heads downstairs for the gym, hoping he can work off some of this frustration – enough, at least, that he can sleep tonight. It’ll buy some time, too; Geno’s temper burns hot but not long, and Sid knows he’ll be back with an apology before it’s time for bed.

But he’s not. Sid waits, through his workout—which fails to cool him down like it usually would—and his shower, his nighttime snack, and his before-bed routine.

_Where the fuck is he?_ Sid thinks, irritated.

He lets the bond drive his steps until it leads him to one of the guest rooms on the top floor – pretty much as far away from their bedroom as you can get without leaving the house. The door is closed and—Sid tries the doorknob—locked.

He glares at the door and fumes. _Very mature_ , he thinks, dropping his shields to make sure Geno knows exactly what he thinks of this tactic.

_Whatever_ , he tells himself, stomping down the stairs. _If he wants to hide out there until I fall asleep so he can come to bed without having to talk to me, that’s his problem. I’ll be there when he wakes up, so he’s not getting out of this forever._

But when Sid wakes up the next morning, the other side of the bed is cold and undisturbed. And when that really sinks in— _Geno didn’t come to bed last night_ —the chill of the empty bed fills him up from head to toe, leaving him frozen with shivering panic.

_No, no, no, this is wrong_ , he thinks frantically. His breath is hitching in and out of him, fighting its way past the sobs building up in his throat. _Everything is ruined and broken and I don’t even know why_—

There’s another, more rational voice in his head, saying things like _Geno turned his back on his country and moved his parents halfway around the world for you, don’t be stupid, you’ve gotten through way bigger stuff than this together_ —

But Sid isn’t listening. He’s sick to his stomach, and clenching the bedsheets so hard his fingers hurt, and the one person who he would normally talk to when he’s hurting this bad is the same person who’s hurt him, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He desperately wants to talk to somebody, to let out this horrible pressure building up in his chest, but—

_I can’t_ , he thinks, burying his face in his hands. He’s too ashamed, he realizes – ashamed to have ruined things, ashamed to have driven Geno away. _I ruined it, I ruined it, I knew that I would—_

That particular scrap of thought triggers something in his memory: telling his therapist, LaShawn, that he used to feel like he ruined Geno every time he touched him—

_LaShawn_ , Sid thinks, and then another memory flashes across his mind: LaShawn giving him her phone number for emergencies, him typing it into his contacts without ever intending to use it—

He grabs for his phone and pulls up her cell number, then presses the call button before he can talk himself out of it.

_She won’t pick up, not this early in the morning—_

But she does. “This is Dr. LaShawn Reynolds,” she says, sounding perfectly alert.

Sid sags back against the headboard in relief. “It’s Sidney.” Even just in the space of those two words, he sounds like a wreck.

But LaShawn says his name warmly and asks, “How are you feeling?”

Sid half-laughs, jagged. “Not good. I think…” He pauses for a second as the superstitious part of his mind urges him not to say the words out loud, that that’ll make them real… but he has to tell someone. It’s too big a fear to hold all by himself. Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his temple against the headboard, he whispers, “I think me and Geno might be breaking up.”

LaShawn makes a sympathetic sound and responds, “You’re right, that’s not a good feeling. Did Geno say that he wants to break up? Or that you should break up?”

“No,” Sid admits.

“Do _you_ want to break up?”

“No!”

“Okay,” LaShawn says in a soothing tone. “Okay.” After a short pause, she asks, “Why do you think you and Geno might be breaking up, then?”

Sid confesses, “We had a fight.”

“Ah. A bad one, hmm?”

“Yeah. And he… he didn’t come to bed,” Sid explains, in a small voice. His eyes keep straying to the empty half of the bed, like picking at a scab.

Calmly, LaShawn asks, “Is this the first time the two of you have slept separately?”

“Since we… got together. Yeah,” Sid says. “Except for trips and stuff.”

“Mm. And how do you feel about that?”

“I feel…” Sid doesn’t even know where to start. He pulls his knees up to his chest and tries to take a deep breath – it doesn’t go well. He admits, “I’m really freaking out. I wouldn’t have bothered you if—I’m sorry—”

“You’re not bothering me,” LaShawn says, firm. “I’m glad you called. I can tell you’re really upset.”

Sid’s second attempt at a deep breath goes a little better. “Thank you.”

There’s a little pause, and then LaShawn says evenly, “I have to ask: Sidney, are you thinking of hurting yourself, or concerned that someone else might hurt you?”

Sid nearly chokes on his own spit. “ _No_ ,” he says. “No way.” As bad as he feels, and as mad as Geno had gotten, those are lines he couldn’t even imagine either of them crossing... which is kind of a reassuring thought, now that it occurs to him.

“I’m glad to hear that.” There’s another little pause, and then LaShawn asks, “Do you know where Geno slept? Did he leave the house?”

Sid reaches out through the bond. _Why didn’t I think to do that before?_ “No,” he reports, feeling a tiny bit better. “No, he’s still here. He might have left after I went to sleep and then come back, but… I don’t think so.”

“Does that change how you feel?”

“A little. It’s… it’s better,” he admits. He shifts to brace his back against the headboard, turning his head to look out the window. It’s still mostly dark out.

“I don’t remember you telling me about any other fights.”

“No,” Sid agrees. “We—we don’t fight.” He remembers, just a week ago, thinking _No matter what happens, we’re solid, we’ll get through it_ … but that certainty betrayed him, and he still doesn’t know why. It feels like the ground has shifted under his feet.

“Hmm.” There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then LaShawn says, “Well, you’d know your own relationship best, but in my experience, Sidney, it’s very common for couples to argue – and usually, they get through it. It’s very rare for an argument to result in the end of the relationship.”

“Oh,” Sid says, quiet. He tucks his chin down to his chest and presses his forehead to his knees.

There’s a part of him that feels foolish – embarrassed to have overreacted to something that LaShawn seems to think is normal. But there’s another part of him that’s thinking, _You don’t know, we’re different, it feels different, and scary, and not normal – I don’t want something that feels this horrible to be normal._

Sid tries to think about other couples he knows. He’s never seen his mom and dad fight, or Mario and Nathalie… _but they wouldn’t fight in front of me_ , he acknowledges. _Me not seeing it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen_. So that’s inconclusive.

The thing is, even though it would mean he’d made a fool of himself, he really _wants_ LaShawn to be right. He wants to believe that he and Geno will be okay, with time and forgiveness. He wants to believe this isn’t as earth-shattering as it feels.

“It’s also very common,” LaShawn says gently, “for couples to argue in the wake of a big change in their relationship. Even if it’s a good change. Partners are thrust out of their comfort zones, and that can cause tension to build up. That tension needs some way to be released, and often it gets released as anger.”

She knows, of course, that he and Geno had tried the blowjob stuff last week, which he supposes counts as a change in their relationship. And what she’s saying about tension… when he thinks about it, it kind of makes sense. They’d both felt a lot of anticipation and a lot of worry in the lead-up to their first attempt, and he would have thought that the sex itself would have worked that off, but… maybe not. It was a lot of tension for one blowjob to try to work through, that’s for sure.

“There’s one other thing I’d say,” offers LaShawn. “And it’s a generalization, which I don’t usually find helpful, but… I find it’s often the case, with men especially, that when someone is outwardly showing anger, what they’re feeling inwardly is fear. In that circumstance, addressing the anger head-on won’t be that useful, because you’re not getting at the real issue underneath. So it may be helpful for you to think about what Geno might have been afraid of. And what _you_ might have been afraid of.”

Sid takes that in, leaning back against the headboard while he turns the idea around in his mind to see how it fits. He’s not sure if LaShawn is right, but she’s smart and knows a lot about this stuff, so at least it’s something to think about.

“I will,” he tells her, sitting up straighter. “I’ll think about it for sure.”

“Good,” she says. “So. How are you feeling?”

Sid exhales and takes stock. He doesn’t feel like he’s about to hyperventilate, which is definitely a good sign. And he doesn’t feel so much like the world is falling down around his head.

“Better,” he says. “Better. Thank you. Again, I’m—I’m sorry to bother you.” Probably if he’d just tried to breathe and thought this through on his own, he could have managed eventually. He’s kind of embarrassed to have called her outside of working hours over something that apparently most normal people think is no big deal.

“It’s no bother. This is what I’m here for.” She sounds sincere, which makes Sid feel a little better about it. Then she asks, “Do you want to talk about what the argument was about?”

Sid immediately says, “No, no – that’s okay—” and then wonders why. He can’t articulate a reason for _not_ talking about it… but even with a second to think, he still doesn’t like the idea of telling LaShawn how the fight got started. He covers with, “We can talk about it at my next session, next week. I just—I want to go find Geno.”

LaShawn doesn’t question it. “That sounds like a good idea. Take care of yourself, Sidney. Call me again later on if you need to, okay?”

“Okay,” Sid says, relieved. “Thank you. Um. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Sidney.”

Sid is left staring at his phone.  His legs are still tangled up in the sheets, and even though he told LaShawn he wanted to go find Geno, he didn’t mean it. What he _really_ wants, in his heart of hearts, is to slide his whole body back under the sheets and blanket and not come out.

_Well… no_ , Sid acknowledges, wistfully, _what I really want is for Geno to be in this bed with me. Even though I’m still kind of mad, even though I don’t know what happened or why Geno was mad or—or scared, like LaShawn said… even with all that, I just want him here with me, under the covers, where it’s warm and we can be close._

He wants Geno to snuggle into his side and call him _solnyshka_ and tease him for not being a morning person. God, he can picture it so clearly.

His eyes burn, and he slides down the bed and presses his face into the pillow.

He stays there for a few minutes, blocking out the light, breathing in their shared skin-scent and trying not to start crying again.

Eventually, unromantically, his need to piss overwhelms his desire to avoid reckoning with the world in general and Geno in particular.

He takes care of his body’s needs and throws on his warmest hoodie; then he squares his shoulders and leaves the bedroom.

But right outside, he pulls up short. In the hallway, just off to the side of the bedroom doorway, there’s a balled-up blanket and a couple of pillows.

For a moment, Sid just stares, blinking.  _Did he…?_

The only way to know is to ask. At least it’ll give him something to say to Geno that’s not _Please come back_ or _What the fuck_.

He lets the bond lead him to the kitchen, where he finds Geno sitting at the kitchen island, sipping a cup of tea in front of a plate of toast. He was watching the doorway when Sid came in – of course he knew Sid was coming. He looks like shit: there are dark circles under his reddened eyes, and his shoulders are hunched. It hurts to see him hurting.

Sid blurts out, “Did you sleep on the floor? In the hallway?”

Geno nods shortly.

“Why?”

Geno looks down at the toast. “I worry you have bad dreams,” he mumbles.

Without Sid’s volition, his feet move across the kitchen floor, carrying him toward Geno. He steps gingerly, because his heart suddenly feels so full that it might—spill over, or something. Geno had been so angry last night, so wounded... but despite that anger and hurt, he had still thought first of Sid and Sid’s comfort, far above his own – far enough that he was willing to sleep on the hard floor to guard Sid’s dreams.

It occurs to Sid, all of a sudden, that Geno must have left the pillows and blanket there on purpose; it would have taken only a few seconds for him to pick them up and drop them in another room, and if he had, Sid would never have known he’d been there at all. He’d just have assumed Geno slept in the guest room where he’d been holed up after the fight.

Sid’s not sure what it means that Geno left them in the hallway, where Sid couldn’t help but stumble on them. But he thinks it has to be a good sign. Geno didn’t feel like he had to hide how much he cares. So Sid doesn’t either.

Stopping just short of Geno, still not confident that an attempt to bridge those last few inches between them would be welcome, Sid says softly, “I love you.” He’s terrified, _terrified_ that Geno won’t say it back, even though he knows that Geno still feels it. But his need for Geno to know what’s in his heart overpowers his fear.

Air escapes from Geno’s mouth: a breath he’d been holding. Then, equally softly, he replies, “I love you, Sid.”

Sid sinks into a chair on the other side of the kitchen island and tries to slow his racing heart. It’s impossible to put into words how different he feels now than he had when he first woke up this morning– impossible to express how powerfully it reassures him to know that they can both still say “I love you” to each other.  He realizes, now, that he wasn’t ever afraid that Geno had stopped loving him, and it never even occurred to him that _he_ might have stopped loving _Geno_. But he’s learned enough about the importance of communication to know that saying it is almost as important as feeling it. The utter breakdown of their ability to communicate with each other had been one of the most destabilizing and frightening things about yesterday’s fight. But at least some part of it is still there, he now knows. They still have the courage to say this one, vital thing on which everything else is built.

_Okay_ , Sid thinks, _okay_. For the first time since he woke up, he takes a breath that fills him up down to the bottom of his lungs.

Geno’s gaze has stayed on Sid’s face the whole time, and Sid knows he must have been following along with the changing tides of Sid’s emotions. Still, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he nudges the plate toward Sid and asks diffidently, “You want toast?”

Sid almost laughs at the incongruity of it: perilous confessions of the heart, and then… toast. But he doesn’t begrudge Geno the attempt at reinstating some kind of normality.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he replies, and takes a piece from the stack on the plate. “Um, I’ll… make some eggs?” Despite his best efforts, his voice turns up at the end, and he feels a sizzle of apprehension – what if the toast was some kind of peace offering and by countering with an offer of eggs he’s—screwed it up, or insulted Geno—

But Geno just nods, and says, “Thank you, Sid. I’m… cut up some fruit, maybe. If you like.” The look he casts Sid is slightly anxious, and perversely, it reassures Sid. They’re _both_ walking on eggshells.

“Fruit sounds nice. Thanks, G.”

That’s about the highest level of conversation they manage all morning. Sid gets ready for practice alone, missing the intimacy of bumping into Geno at the bathroom vanity and the rustle of Geno’s clothes as Sid pulls on his own. In the car, they exchange careful, uncontroversial remarks about the weather and the traffic, like strangers. Maybe that should hurt, but it doesn’t – Sid’s just relieved that they’re talking to each other at all.

Practice provides a welcome break… but when Sid catches himself having that thought, he feels sick. _When did Geno’s presence become something I need a break from?_

He hates it.

Flower, of course, knows right away that something’s up – the minute Sid and Geno walk through the door of the dressing room, his eyes narrow. Out on the ice, he takes advantage of a break to herd Sid into the corner boards and give him a _look_.

Sid sees no point in dragging out the inevitable. “Geno and I had a fight,” he admits. “I don’t want to talk about it. I was really—really freaked out this morning, and things still aren’t great, but I think—I think they will be. Eventually.”

Flower makes a sad little humming noise and gives Sid a one-armed hug. “That is hard,” he murmurs. “I hate fighting with Vero. It feels like none of my gear fits right until we are easy with each other again.”

It reassures Sid, hearing Flower talk about it so casually – like fighting with Vero is something that’s shitty but unavoidable. Like it’s something that passes. _Point for LaShawn_ , he thinks, and the knot of tension between his shoulder blades eases by just a fraction.

After practice, Sid has a Little Penguins event, and then dinner plans with Shearsy. The restaurant Conor picked is _very_ slow, and Conor wants to order a _lot_ of drinks, and Sid is of two minds about it: on the one hand, if he gets home late, maybe Geno will be asleep in their bed and they won’t have to talk about it; on the other hand, if he gets home late, maybe Geno will be asleep in the guest room, or—God forbid—on the floor, and Sid will have lost his chance to ask Geno to come to bed.

Eventually, Sid pulls out his phone and texts Geno, _I’ll be home before bed_ , hoping that the implied _wait for me_ will come through.

Conor, thankfully, is oblivious to Sid’s emotional turmoil – he just wants to talk football and gossip about their friends on other teams until he’s gently blitzed. Sid drives him home in his big dumb bought-it-with-my-first-NHL-paycheck car and then gets a Lyft, since Geno drove his car home from the rink after practice.

He finds Geno at the kitchen island again. There’s a carton of frozen yogurt on the island, in the spot where Sid usually sits.

“Is that for me?” Sid asks.

Geno shrugs and gives Sid a shy look. “If you like it.”

For once, Sid’s not hungry—dinner was slow, but satisfying—but he’s not going to turn down an obvious peace offering.

“Thank you, G,” he says, pleased.

He goes to the utensil drawer and starts to pick up two spoons, so they can share it—then his brain throws him an image of how that would look, how date-like and cozy, and he feels a flash of uneasiness. They’re not there yet. Or—he’s not sure. He’s just not sure.

He gets one spoon.

Geno asks, “How was Little Penguins?” and they get almost fifteen minutes of easy conversation out of that: Sid telling cute stories, Geno looking alternately delighted and amused.

When the conversation drifts to a natural halt, Sid thinks, _This is the best chance I’m gonna get_. He pulls together his courage and says, “I’m, um. I’m kind of tired, I’m… I’m going to go to bed.”

Geno nods – a slight, barely-there motion. Suddenly he’s avoiding Sid’s eyes. “Okay."

“Are you… are you coming? To bed with me?”

Geno hesitates, visibly conflicted, but after a second he says, softly, “No.”

Even though Sid had known Geno might refuse, he hadn’t understood how much it would hurt – pain and shock mingled together, like the moment a bone snaps. He wants to understand, he _needs_ to understand, and the words, “Why not?” burst out of his mouth without any conscious thought on his part.

Geno looks uncomfortable, but just shakes his head. After a minute, Sid realizes that’s all he’s going to get. It’s not enough.

“So, what, you’re just going to sleep on the floor again?” It comes out sharp.

Almost immediately, he realizes that was the wrong tone to take: Geno’s whole posture turns combative, and his jaw juts out stubbornly when he says, “Maybe.”

“It’s not good for you,” Sid tries, laying his arms on the table, open, pleading.

Geno narrows his eyes. “Sid know what’s good for me, hmm?” he says, biting. “Always know best; what I’m say, want, it’s not matter—”

Sid’s not sure he’s ever felt his own blood pressure shoot up so fast. For Geno to say that Sid doesn’t care what he wants, when this whole thing started because Sid tried to _give_ Geno what he wanted and Geno threw it in his face—

Voice rising, Sid replies, “That’s not _fair_ , you can’t—”

But his words break off, because he hates it – he hates this. The sound of his own raised voice, the stinging in his eyes, the squaring off against Geno like he’s an opponent… He’s so sick of every bit of it that he could vomit.

He buries his head in his hands. “Please,” he begs, trying not to cry. “Please, I don’t want to _fight_.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he hates that, too.

Geno makes a soft, punched-out noise.

Sid stays still, bent over the counter, forehead pressing into his palms, until he feels the lightest brush of a touch against his elbow.

He looks up.

Geno is looking back, guilt painted all over his face. “I don’t want fight, either, Sid,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sid offers, because he snapped at Geno first, and he shouldn’t have let his frustration get the better of him. He takes a deep breath. Deliberately keeping his voice low, he says, “Please don’t sleep on the floor, Geno. It’ll hurt your back. And I don’t want you hurt.”

Geno looks stubborn again. “But I don’t want you hurt, also,” he insists. “And dreams hurt you if I’m not close.”

This could be so simple. It’s not, Sid knows that. But it could be. He can’t help himself – he says, very softly, without looking at Geno, “You could just come to bed.”

_Please just come to bed_.

But Geno shakes his head again. “Not tonight, Sid,” he murmurs.

Sid doesn’t like it. But he meant it when he said he didn’t want to fight. And he doesn’t think he can change Geno’s mind by arguing. So he takes a different tack.

“Then where are you going to sleep? And,” he continues, cutting Geno off, “if you sleep on the floor, then so will I. If I can’t stop you sleeping on the floor, you can’t stop me.”

Geno gives Sid a look that’s both betrayed and slightly impressed – he’s caught, and he knows it.

Having succeeded in the first step of his plan, Sid suggests, “There’s a couch in the office, next to the bedroom. We never go in there, but… I think the couch is pretty big. Not as comfortable as a bed, but… it’s not the floor, at least.”

Immediately, Geno objects, “It’s too far.”

“Then what?”

Geno fights with himself – Sid can see the conflict playing out on his face. In the end, defeated, he mutters, “Couch.” Then, rallying, he counters, “But if you have bad dreams because couch is too far, _then_ I can sleep on floor.”

“Then we’ll both sleep on the floor,” Sid corrects. He will not be moved on this. Either they’ll both be horribly uncomfortable, or neither of them will. That’s just fairness.

Geno tenses with frustration and for a minute, Sid thinks they’re about to start fighting again. But then Geno sits back in his chair, and says with finality, “Couch, but if bad dreams, I wake you up, and _then_ we decide what happen.”

Well, Sid’s not thrilled with that—the last thing he wants is to have a sequel to this argument in the middle of the night when he’s shaking and nauseous—but he sees the wisdom in not fighting about something that might not even happen. Plus, he’s pretty sure that if he’s shaking and nauseous, Geno will give him whatever he wants, so if it gets to that point, the plan will end up working to his advantage in the end.

“Deal,” he declares, and Geno nods.

For two seconds, Sid feels pretty okay. Then Geno stands up and Sid realizes they’re about to go their separate ways, for the second night in a row, instead of going to bed together, and he has to close his eyes to keep from saying something dumb.

_We’ll be all right_ , he tells himself. _We’re not all right now, but in time…_

Somewhat to his own surprise, Sid sleeps through the night. The pain of waking up alone is lessened by the knowledge that Geno is in the next room over, guarding Sid through the night, doing his best to keep Sid safe from harm despite the distance between them.

Breakfast is a stilted affair again, but they manage not to start any more fights, which Sid is determined to take as a positive. Then it’s time to head for the airport, and to Dallas.

On the plane, Sid sits with Flower as usual. Flower leans in after take-off and offers, “Want to talk about it now?” but when Sid shakes his head, Flower returns to his tablet without objection.

Sid tries to focus on his book through the flight, but his mind keeps returning to something LaShawn said: that under anger, a lot of the time, is fear.

Sid knows that’s true of his father: that the reason he’s so hurtful sometimes is because he’s afraid for Sid, and doesn’t know any other way to show it. And Sid’s seen it in teammates, with how hostile and prickly guys get when they’re injured. Some of that is frustration at not playing, sure… but Sid knows first-hand that injury is scary, too. You never know if this is the big one, the one that takes you out forever. But hockey players aren’t good at saying that. Or, Sid acknowledges, it’s probably not a hockey player thing: Taylor’s never had any trouble talking frankly about her injuries. LaShawn is probably right that it’s men who aren’t good at admitting they’re afraid.

_Including me_ , Sid thinks. _And Geno_. _So what are we afraid of?_

By the time the plane touches down, Sid still doesn’t have the answer – especially when it comes to Geno. But he thinks he might have an idea that could lead him to one, eventually. He didn’t think about it like this at the time, but the last few months, when he’d been putting in the work to try to bring oral sex back into his comfort zone, he’d spent a _lot_ of time afraid. He’d been doing it to try to get to a place where he _wasn’t_ afraid anymore, but still… he’d been dragging a great big, heavy blob of fear around with him—with _them_ —without really recognizing that that’s what he was doing.  There were all different levels of fear in there, too: fear of having a flashback, fear _in_ the flashbacks of hurting Geno and ruining everything, fear of just plain failing, fear of disappointing Geno if he tried the blowjob thing and couldn’t do it, fear of disappointing Geno if he _could_ do it but he wasn’t any good, fear that the whole process was taking too long, fear that he’d end up re-traumatizing himself, fear of fucking up their sex life forever…

_That’s kind of a lot_ , Sid admits. _And Geno had a lot going on, too, because I know he was worried about me._ Maybe that fear kind of… carried over, bled into what should have been a normal, calm discussion and messed it up. Maybe the fear was waiting for an opening, a chance to release what had been building up without him even recognizing it, and when Geno had some problem with Sid asking him to fuck—whatever that problem might have been, Sid still has no fucking clue—that created the break in the dam.

That’s all kind of vague and not really an answer, but it rings true, and it’s at least a _partial_ explanation. It’s more than he had before, anyway.

When they arrive at the hotel, he realizes with a jolt that Geno might not want to share a room. _There’s separate beds_ , he tells himself. But the truth is, he doesn’t know how far Geno’s unwillingness to sleep near him goes. He thinks about offering to get a separate room, but… _No_ , he decides. _If Geno can’t stand to share a room with me, he can be the one to bring it up._

He’s on tenterhooks in the elevator and in the hallway, all the way to their shared room, and when the door closes behind them, he’s braced for the worst.

But Geno just sets down his luggage, hesitates for a long minute, then says quietly, “I’m take this bed,” nodding at the one nearer the door.

Sid takes a slow breath, battling both relief— _he doesn’t want separate rooms_ —and disappointment— _he still doesn’t want to share a bed_.

“Okay,” he replies, small.

Geno makes a low sound and reaches out to brush his fingertips over Sid’s cheek, only making contact for a split-second. “Love you, Sid.” He says it like a promise.

It helps.

“I love you, too,” Sid responds, and he dares to trace his own fingers along Geno’s cheekbone. Geno gives him a tiny smile before turning away to unpack.

Sid goes through his game-day routine, which helps him keep his mind off his Geno problems. If any of the guys notice, as they’re going through their own preparations, that he and Geno aren’t talking as much as they normally would, they have the tact to keep it to themselves.

_So I can assume they don’t notice_ , Sid thinks ruefully. _Because the “tact” theory is pretty unlikely._

The game itself is nothing special: the Penguins win 3-1, with all the scoring confined to the first half of the game, and the back half therefore spent sitting back and protecting their lead. Not his favorite kind of game, but a win is a win, and he’ll take it.

When the game is over, he heads out for drinks with the younger guys, but as the hours pass, it gets harder and harder for him to ignore the fact that he stopped having fun about ninety minutes in. Since then he’s just been stalling because he doesn’t want to go back to their hotel room and sleep in a bed that doesn’t have Geno in it.

_Fuck_ , Sid thinks. He rubs his hands over his face. _Be a grown-up, Sid._

He takes his own advice, and it takes him back to the hotel.

Geno’s already asleep when he gets in, and Sid pauses for a moment just to take in the sight of his face, soft and unguarded.

_I missed this_ , he thinks. _I missed this part of you_.

He misses more: the warmth of Geno’s skin against his own, the reassuring wall of Geno’s body to shelter him, the twinkle in Geno’s eyes when he trolls Sid for hating mornings. And those are just the things he can name.

_Why don’t those things mean as much to you as they do to me?_ Sid wonders, his throat tight. _Why don’t you miss them as much as I do?_ He crawls onto the other bed, still dressed, and curls up on his side, mirroring the curve of Geno’s body. _It’s just three feet, and then you’d be in my arms. No—I don’t even have to touch you. Just be here. Just be with me._

Geno twitches in his sleep, and a frown flickers across his mouth.

It might be a coincidence. But it might be Geno reacting to what Sid’s feeling.

Sid allows himself a moment of gross self-pity— _I’m Geno’s bad dream_ —before shaking his head and getting up. As he brushes his teeth in the bathroom, he reminds himself, _Geno loves me. I’m his good dream. He told me so, that first morning we woke up in bed together for real, as a couple._

Sid believes that, with all his heart. But he also doesn’t understand why, if it _is_ true, Geno doesn’t want to share a bed with him.

A memory drifts up toward his conscious notice – one stirred up by the thinking he did on the plane.

When he’d asked Geno what _he_ wanted in order to be comfortable with Sid giving him a blowjob, one of the things Geno had asked for was that they not do it—at least the first time—in their bedroom or their bed. And when Sid had asked him why, he’d said, _B_ _ed is safe place for us – I don’t want to do maybe-scary thing there_ , and _If something bad happen in our bed, then it’s remind us of bad thing, and bed should remind us of happy things_.

_Oh_ , Sid thinks. When he meets his own eyes in the mirror, he looks startled.

As he spits the toothpaste foam into the sink and rinses out his mouth, he thinks through the implications of that memory.

Maybe the reason Geno doesn’t want to share a bed with him right now isn’t because sharing a bed with Sid doesn’t mean much to Geno, but because it means a _lot_. The fight they’d had a few days ago was a bad and scary thing, and Geno doesn’t want bad and scary things in their bed. Maybe it’s as simple as that.

Sid shucks his clothes and turns off the bathroom light. He climbs into his bed and rolls onto his side again, facing Geno. _It’s not just the fight that was scary_ , he thinks. _I think LaShawn is right that Geno was scared of something in particular, something that he covered up with yelling and swearing. Maybe he didn’t want that scary thing in our bed, either._

Even just that small fragment of understanding helps. Since the night that they fought, Sid has felt scared and angry and disappointed and hurt, but more than all of those, he’s felt _lost_ – like he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on, and things he thought he could rely on were slipping away.

But now he feels like he has another piece of the puzzle.

That thought, and the sound of Geno’s slow breathing, carry Sid off to sleep.

The next day they have a short morning flight to Arizona and an evening game. That means an early wake-up time and a little bit of a hectic morning routine, which turns out to be a blessing – Sid just doesn’t have the time to worry about whether it’s going to be awkward to get ready alongside Geno for the first time since the fight.

_It wasn’t awkward, though_ , Sid thinks later, on the plane, slouching in his seat and smiling. _It was nice. Really nice_. He’d missed their practiced bathroom ballet, handing off towels, making room at the sink, taking care not to hog all the hot water, and it was comforting to find out that they haven’t lost their knack for it. It was also, Sid realizes, the most that he and Geno have touched each other since the fight, with each of them gently nudging the other person out of the way or brushing past the other person. Geno had even dropped an absent-minded kiss on Sid’s shoulder when he’d reached around Sid for the can of shaving cream. He’d blushed and pulled back as soon as he noticed what he’d done, but that’s okay, Sid thinks – baby steps.

He has low expectations for the game itself—Arizona is a shitty team, and the Penguins play down against weak opponents—but the reality is completely different, mostly because Schenn runs over Flower early in the first, and the Penguins do _not_ play down against opponents who fuck with their goalie.

The game gets chippy, but, miracle of miracles, the skill guys—including Sid’s own personal hothead—play like living well is the best revenge. Every penalty they take is smart and necessary, and every rush up the ice contains all the force of a fistfight, channeled into footspeed and sharp passing. They chase Smith halfway through the second, after four unanswered goals, and at that point, it starts to feel like they’re playing with their food. Sid and Geno together get what Flower has started calling a “two-headed hat trick” – three goals and three assists between the pair of them, with each goal by Sid coming off an assist from Geno and vice versa. The crowd is dead silent but the bench is loud with cheers and good-humored chirps, and it’s one of those nights where Sid feels like he’s flying.

The mood in the room after the game is electric, and Sid’s blood is still fizzing when he finds himself back in the hotel room with Geno.

The room is dimly lit, but one glance is enough to show him that Geno is heated up, too. Sid steps toward him, then hesitates, suddenly unsure.

After a game like this, he and Geno would usually blow off the guys and celebrate between the sheets instead, and… he wants that. No question. He’s itching to burn off all the energy of the game against Geno’s skin and Geno’s mouth.

But he doesn’t know if that’s an okay thing to want right now, or even an okay thing to talk about.

_The last time I asked Geno if he wanted to have sex, everything went off a cliff_ , he thinks.

It’s not enough to turn him off. But it’s enough to paralyze him, leave him waiting and watching, frozen to the spot and hoping for Geno to give him a sign.

Geno is watching, too, his eyes fixed intently on Sid’s face.

They can’t both wait, Sid thinks. Someone has to _do_ something.

So he steels himself and takes a step closer to Geno, and then another one. When he’s just a few inches away, he sets his palm on Geno’s chest and asks, “Can I take off your tie?” It comes out almost as a whisper. _That’s not a come-on_ , he tells himself. _Even if he’s going out, he’ll need the tie off._

But Geno shivers as if Sid has said something desperately filthy. “Yes,” he whispers back.

Sid carefully unknots and removes Geno’s tie – the slithering sound that the silk makes when he pulls it through Geno’s collar makes Sid’s pulse pick up. “What about your jacket?” he asks, pushing his luck.

Geno swallows. “Yes,” he says again. “You can take off.”

So Sid does, hanging it up carefully in the little closet by the door.

He doesn’t know where to go from there; anything else he asks to take off _would_ be a come-on.

_I could… I could take off my own coat and tie_ , he decides, and since he’s standing in front of the closet anyway, he does.

When he turns around, Geno is still watching him, and Sid can’t mistake the desire in his gaze.

“Sid,” he says quietly. “You want I make you feel good?”

Sid’s face flushes. _Well. That’s pretty clear_.

“Yes,” he replies, maybe too fast. “If you want that, too.”

Geno nods. Sid can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I want.”

Their clothes come off in watchful, hungry silence. When they’re naked, Geno reaches out for Sid and pulls him into an embrace; after days deprived of Geno’s touch, the sudden wealth of bare skin against his own makes Sid gasp.

Geno freezes, starts to let go, but Sid shakes his head and holds on. “Don’t you dare,” he whispers. “It’s good, you feel good.”

Geno leads him toward the bed, walking backward and then sitting on the corner, legs splayed. He strokes the inside of his own thighs, slow and showy. His eyes are so dark. “This make you feel good?” he asks. “This, here?”

“Yes,” Sid breathes, replacing Geno’s hands with his own and stroking the smooth, soft skin just at the very top of Geno’s thighs. “Yes. But kiss me first.”

“Yes.”

Geno draws Sid down into kiss that starts tentative but turns sharp and gasping. That energy from the game hasn’t gone anywhere, and Sid can feel it coursing through every place their bodies meet. He initiates the next kiss, and follows Geno down onto the bed, bracketing him in with his hands and knees.

When they break for breath, Geno cups Sid’s face in his hands and just _looks_ at him, closely, like he’s searching for a stray eyelash in Sid’s eye.

_Is he changing his mind?_ Sid thinks, and his stomach drops—but a moment later, Geno pulls Sid down into another heated kiss and starts tracing his fingertips down the middle of Sid’s body. _So whatever he was looking for, I guess he found it._

Geno does it again when he comes back from his bag after retrieving the lube: curving a hand around Sid’s jaw to hold him still, then examining his face for just long enough to make Sid uncomfortable. And he does it a third time right before he guides Sid’s dick into the slick tightness between his thighs, when Sid is desperate and would tell him anything, show him anything, if he just wouldn’t _stop_. He keeps his eyes fixed on Sid’s face after, too, when Sid is jacking him off – now _he’s_ the one who looks desperate, biting his lips and trembling underneath the shelter of Sid’s body.

Sid wants to ask, _What are you looking for?_ But he’s afraid of what Geno might say. He kisses Geno instead, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to bear the weight of that searching gaze. He doesn’t open them again until Geno goes still and spills into Sid’s hand.

After he’s cleaned them both up with tissues, Sid settles in alongside Geno, one arm lying across Geno’s stomach. His mind keeps drifting down toward sleep, and he’s all right with that – it’s late, and the adrenaline crash is starting to wipe him out. They have to be up early tomorrow for the plane back to Pittsburgh, anyway.

He’s halfway asleep when he feels Geno shift in bed beside him, and then start to slide away, toward the edge of the bed.

It jolts Sid awake, flipping him from drowsy to panicked in a split-second. _He’s leaving_ , he thinks, reaching for Geno and trying to pull together the words for why Geno shouldn’t, why he _can’t_ —

But before Sid can manage it, Geno catches Sid’s hands between his own and presses them to his lips. “I’m just get water,” he promises, low. “I’m back right away.”

“You fucking better,” Sid replies, his voice shaking.

“Yes,” Geno agrees. He kisses Sid’s fingers again and then climbs out of bed.

Sid watches him putter around the room, setting water cups on the bedside table, turning off the lights, bringing their respective phones and chargers over and plugging them in – the little necessary chores of hotel living. It’s soothing. Sid takes a deep breath, and another, and by the time Geno returns to bed, Sid’s heart rate has settled down again.

_This was good_ , he thinks, as Geno crawls under the sheets and switches off the bedside lamp. _It’s a good sign, that he’s coming to bed, and good that we can still make each other feel good_.

He reaches out to rest his hand on Geno’s chest, holding his breath, hoping Geno won’t pull away. It’s greedy, probably, for him to want to touch Geno this much when Geno sleeping in bed with him is already such a big step forward. But Sid will always, always be greedy for as much of Geno as he can get, and he wouldn’t change that about himself even if he could.

Geno doesn’t push his hand away – instead, he wriggles toward Sid a little, so that Sid’s whole arm is draped across Geno’s body again, and then lets out a deep sigh. “Good,” he mumbles, and his eyes flutter shut.

“Good,” Sid agrees. Before long, the rhythm of Geno’s chest rising and falling under his arm lulls him into sleep.

He sleeps deeply and without interruption until he’s woken in the morning by Geno climbing out of bed.

Sid blinks up at him. His mind is fuzzy and empty, but he retains a strong but vague sense that Geno in his bed is good and Geno leaving his bed is bad. He frowns at Geno and mumbles, “Don’ go…”

Geno rests a hand on Sid’s forehead and whispers, “Almost time for get up, but you can sleep little more, Sid.” He turns away, and Sid is hit by a powerful wave of yearning – _Come back to bed, and smile, and hold me, and call me_ solnyshka _like you used to, I miss that, I miss you_ —

Geno pauses and turns back. He searches Sid’s face, just as intently as he did last night. “What you want, Sid?” he asks.

More awake now, Sid blushes—no fucking way is he going to insist Geno call him a little pet name, perform a tenderness that he may not really feel. “It’s stupid, sorry, I was asleep—”

Geno shakes his head. “Not stupid.” He sits on the side of the bed, still watching Sid’s face closely. “Please,” he says, very soft. “Please tell me what you want, Sid.”

Sid could pretend to misunderstand, could tell Geno what he wants now, in the present tense – but he knows that’s not what Geno’s asking.

“It _was_ stupid,” Sid says, turning his face into the pillow. “I just—wanted you to call me, um… sunshine, you know—” He refuses to compound his humiliation by displaying his terrible pronunciation.

“ _Solnyshka?_ ” Geno asks, in a tone of awed surprise. “You—”

Sid suddenly finds himself wrapped up in Geno’s arms, with Geno’s hand cradling his head and Geno’s lips brushing over the shell of his ear. “ _Solnyshka_ , _solnyshka_ ,” Geno murmurs, low, sending a shiver down Sid’s spine. “ _Not_ stupid to want. Beautiful. Beautiful to want. Oh, Sid.”

Sid clings to Geno right back, and draws an unsteady breath. Every part of this feels so good, down to his core: the warmth of Geno’s body, the gentle pressure of his hand, the tenderness in Geno’s voice—and how could he have ever thought that tenderness would be nothing but a performance? But every part of it feels so precarious, too, like it could be ripped away again at any moment. They were happy before, too, and then suddenly, they weren’t.

But he tells himself, _Now, right now, this is mine_ , and he closes his eyes. _Now, right now, I have everything I need. Only a few days ago, I thought I’d never have this again, and now I do. Everything’s not broken or ruined. It’s not okay, not yet. But it will be._

Geno calls Sid _solnyshka_ all morning – every time with a little incredulous smile, like he can’t believe he’s so lucky. He still hesitates, ever so briefly, before kissing Sid on their way out the door. But that’s okay. Sid didn’t think that everything was fixed. He’s still nursing some fears and hesitations of his own.

He takes the plane trip home as an opportunity to do some more serious thinking about what LaShawn had said.

_What was I afraid of? What was it that made me so mad?_

“Hey, Flower?” he asks, on a whim.

Flower raises an eyebrow. “Are we talking about it now?”

“Not… totally, but.” Sid tries to keep his voice low enough that he won’t be overheard. “When I get scared of stuff. What am I scared of?”

“How should I know?”

Sid gives him a steady look. “You’ve known me a long time, Flower.”

“True,” Flower allows. He slides down in his seat, bracing his shins against the back of the seat in front of him. “Hmm.”

Sid waits patiently as Flower thinks it over.

“Losing things,” Flower says, finally, sitting back up. “Opportunities, mostly. You don’t get scared of bad things happening, or of getting hurt, or of what other people say about you. But I think you worry about things passing you by. Especially since you were out with your concussion, I think you have felt like time was sort of… dripping away. And I think that scares you, when something makes you feel it.”

“Huh,” says Sid. There’s a lot there to chew on – he can tell Flower took his question seriously. “Thanks, Flower.”

Flower slings an arm around his shoulder and gives him a side-hug. “Any time.”

Sid gives himself a minute to take stock of Flower’s answer. He appreciates that Flower took time thinking it over, and he believes that Flower’s telling the truth as he sees it, but ultimately, Sid doesn’t agree.

He _used_ to be very afraid of losing opportunities, after his concussion but before the bond – he can recognize that, now. But with the security of the healing bond, of knowing that he’ll get to choose for himself when his career will end, that fear has faded much more into the background. And now that he’s no longer missing out on things he once thought he’d never have—a partner, and someday, fatherhood—he thinks the idea of missing out in general no longer has such a powerful hold on him. So maybe Flower’s not so much _wrong_ as out of date.

But.

He can’t deny that when Flower said _losing opportunities_ , a part of Sid thought about the fight and instinctively said _yes_. Because there _was_ a lost opportunity there. And it _does_ really bother him.

_I meant it when I told Geno that I was as ready as I’d ever be – that it was the right time, the best time for him to fuck me, exactly because we’d just done the blowjob stuff for the first time._

All the work Sid had done leading up to that—months of flaying himself open for LaShawn and Geno and _himself_ to analyze and scrutinize and criticize, months of putting himself back in the dark of that fucking hotel room on purpose in the hopes of winnowing down the chances that he’d end up putting himself there by accident—meant that he was as ready as he could possibly ever be. This was it, this was their best possible chance.

_And we blew it_ , Sid thinks, his pulse picking up. _Because he wouldn’t fucking trust me. Because he wanted me to wait, to go backward, to do more, when that’s not what I need. Therapy is therapy. Practice is practice, trauma is trauma… I did the work, I’ve been doing the work, I’ll never be_ more _ready to try the next new thing than I was then—_

God, it pisses Sid off. It could have been so good, it _should_ have been so good, but Geno wouldn’t fucking _listen_ —

Flower rests a hand on Sid’s forearm and murmurs, “Maybe I should have asked _you_ , Sid – what are you afraid of?”

Sid freezes. The whirl of thoughts in his head goes still. “What do you mean?”

Flower leans in close and says, just an inch away from Sid’s ear, “Just now, I could read that you are scared—and Sid, _nothing_ gets past your shields anymore. So whatever you’re afraid of right now, it must be very bad.” He sits back and looks into Sid’s eyes, his face drawn with concern. “What is it, Sid?” he asks. “Who can I fight for you, eh?”

_I’m not scared_ , Sid thinks, heart pounding. _I’m angry_. But that’s not a mistake a strong reader like Flower would make.

“Shit,” he whispers.

Before he has time to figure out what that means, he feels Geno coming up the aisle of the plane behind him; a second later, Geno is there, looming over their row and looking anxious. “Sid, something happen? Through the bond, I feel…”

_He read that I was afraid, too_ , Sid realizes. _Really badly afraid. Of course he came running_.

“I was just thinking about stuff,” Sid says helplessly. “I didn’t mean to freak anybody out…”

Geno crouches down in the aisle, bringing himself eye-to-eye with Sid. “I’m not freak out,” he says. “Just worry. And want to help. If help is go away so you can think, I’m go away. Just want to know you safe.”

“I’m safe,” says Sid, because he’s at least sure of that. “And… and I do think I need to think some more. Sorry.” He doesn’t like feeling like he’s sending Geno away, when for days all he’s wanted is to have Geno _closer_ … but he thinks he just hit on something big, and it’s not something he’s ready to share with Geno.

Geno just nods, though, as if that was what he was expecting, and reaches out to tangle his fingertips briefly with Sid’s – about as much PDA as Sid allows in front of the team. “You think,” he agrees, rising to his feet, “but text me or come find me if I can make feel better, yes?”

“We’re verging on a fineable level of sweetness here,” Rusty interjects from the row in front of Sid.

Lovejoy reaches across from the opposite row and punches Rusty in the shoulder, hard, hissing, “Shut up, fuckhead, they’re having a moment!”

Sid can feel himself turning red. He can’t even begin to express how much he _doesn’t_ want his current relationship troubles with Geno playing out in front of their teammates. Bad enough that they could probably already tell that things were tense – they don’t need the details.

Geno smacks Rusty on the back of the head and starts to announce, “ _You_ fined—”

But Sid puts a hand on Geno’s arm and says, “Don’t,” willing him to not make this a bigger deal than it already is, and Geno cuts himself off.

He stands there in the aisle, looking wrong-footed, for a long minute. Then he mumbles, “Sorry, Sid,” and shuffles back toward his seat.

Sid lets his head fall back against the headrest with a soft thump. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Flower twists in his seat to look straight at Sid. “So this is a little bit of a shitshow, eh?”

Sid laughs in spite of himself. “Yeah,” he says, grateful all over again to have Flower as a friend. “Yeah, little bit.” He resolves to leave the deep thoughts for another time—and another place, with some fucking privacy—and spends the rest of the flight playing Black Ops and trying not to think much at all.

The thing is, though… Sid’s not a stupid guy. He can do the math.

If he was remembering all the work he’d done on the blowjob thing and thinking he was feeling mad, but actually feeling really fucking scared, then it doesn’t take a Ph.D. to figure out that it’s _that_ that he’s scared of. The work, the process, the grind of it, how it wore him down and wrung him out. But that just leads him to a different question, because… _it’s over_ , Sid thinks. _Why would I be that scared of something that’s over?_

_You wouldn’t_ , says a voice in his head that sounds like LaShawn. _Unless you what you were really scared of was that it wasn’t over._

And from the shiver that runs through him as the thought settles into his head, Sid knows that he’s got another big piece of the puzzle. He doesn’t know yet how it fits with the others, but he thinks the overall picture is starting to come into view.

When they get back to Pittsburgh, Sid has a call with Pat about sponsorship stuff and then hits the gym with Tanger. Since Geno is visiting his parents tonight, Sid follows Tanger home for dinner and mini-sticks with the kids. Geno’s not there yet when he gets back, which isn’t unusual – his parents like to keep him pretty late. Sid sits in the den with his laptop and goes down an enjoyable Wikipedia rabbit hole about aviation in World War I; when his eyes start to droop, he heads for bed.

About twenty minutes later, Sid hears the front door open and close, and then feels Geno’s presence coming up the stairs and along the hall to the bedroom. The lights are off, but of course Geno must know Sid is awake. He pauses in the doorway, and Sid feels a stab of doubt— _what if he doesn’t come to bed, what if he only stayed with me last night because we had sex_ —but then Geno comes inside and starts shedding his clothes.

“Hey,” Sid whispers. He wants to ask why Geno is comfortable sleeping beside Sid now when he wasn’t before, or at least to say _I missed you_ —

But he doesn’t want to remind Geno that there’s a reason he might not want to come to bed. Questioning it runs the risk of Geno changing his mind, or of starting another fight. So Sid says only, “I love you.”

And Geno says it back, and slides beneath the covers, and stays. And that’s enough.

The next morning, Sid wakes up plastered to Geno’s back, with predictable effects.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to disentangle himself—

But Geno rolls onto his back and meets Sid’s gaze straight on. “Not sorry,” he says, stroking two fingers down Sid’s jaw, “if you want.”

They’d kicked the covers halfway down the bed when it got too warm in the middle of the night, so Sid can see Geno’s body down to his knees, laid out bare and inviting. His long, lean thighs are parted, and his dick is plumping up against his hip. Sid wants to feel it – wants to feel every inch of him.

“I want,” he says.

Geno hasn’t lost his new habit of watching Sid’s face with uncomfortable intensity, but Sid knows how to avoid that, now – and it’s not like kissing Geno over and over again is a hardship. He threads his fingers through Geno’s hair and loses himself in Geno’s plush lips. Geno meets Sid’s every kiss with eagerness, moaning into Sid’s mouth until the slow, lazy dance of their hips reaches its climax.

Afterward, Geno presses his face to Sid’s temple and murmurs, “ _Solnyshka_. Want to stay, but I’m plans with Gonch before practice. I’m see you then, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Sid agrees, patting Geno’s hip and sinking a little further into sleep. Geno brushes a kiss over his cheek and then Sid feels him head for the shower.

Sid slips in and out of sleep for about an hour before his cell phone rings and he drags himself into wakefulness.

It’s LaShawn’s office manager, reminding him that he has an appointment tomorrow. Before he can really think it through, he blurts out, “I, um—I need to reschedule, something came up. Can we do next week?”

As soon as he hangs up, he stumbles into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. “What the fuck was that?” he asks. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

The immediate response that pops into his head is that, well, things aren’t resolved with Geno yet, and wouldn’t it be more helpful to talk to LaShawn once he’s done his homework and has an answer to offer her?

_No_ , Sid thinks, glaring at his reflection, _because LaShawn could help me find answers, that’s what LaShawn is for_. So that’s some bullshit.

_Maybe that’s the problem._ Sid scrubs his hands through his hair and lets out a sharp sigh. _That LaShawn will know the answers, and I’m not ready to hear them yet. Shit._

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to tell LaShawn how the fight got started, because he’s starting to have a creeping feeling that maybe the way everything went to hell wasn’t all Geno’s fault. That he might have messed up, too – operating on fear without realizing it, reacting from old habits of thought instead of the new, healthier way she’s been teaching him to think.

_I should call the office back right now and say I can make it tomorrow after all_.

But he shies away from that immediately— _they’ll probably have filled my slot by now, she’s really busy_ —which is probably more bullshit, but it’s convincing enough to undermine his already-shaky good intentions.

Marching into the shower, he tells himself, _This is the last time. I am gonna show up for that appointment next week if it kills me, whether things are resolved with Geno or not. And, actually, things had better fucking be resolved with Geno by then, too._ They can’t fucking tiptoe around this forever. They just can’t.

It doesn’t happen the next day, but he forgives himself for that because it’s a game day, and after a bruising loss to the Islanders in overtime, he’s not particularly in the mood to risk another fight. Or at least, that’s his excuse. Besides, Geno sleeps in their shared bed again, without saying a word about it, and Sid’s too fucking grateful to ask questions.

The next day’s an off day, and when Sid asks Geno if he wants the first shower, Geno says, diffidently, “First, or… same. If you want,” ducking his head to look up at Sid through his eyelashes.

“I, uh, same, yes,” Sid manages, and he nearly sprints for the shower.

Geno starts by washing Sid’s hair, which is almost as obvious a peace offering as the frozen yogurt was, since having his hair washed always melts Sid into a puddle of bliss. And when Geno wraps his big, callused hand around Sid’s dick, he doesn’t stare into Sid’s eyes like he did last time and the time before – he just drinks in the sight of Sid’s naked body, or closes his own eyes in pleasure. It’s good. Normal.

They follow their familiar morning choreography, split breakfast duties like usual, and then go their separate ways with a kiss, and Sid is left grateful, yet again – too grateful to rock the boat. It feels _good_ to go back to normal, to share the closeness and warmth that—for a few days—seemed out of reach. _I’ll talk to him tomorrow_ , he thinks. But he’s not sure he believes himself.

The day after that, they’re on the road again for the California trip, starting with the Kings. The team is in high spirits – despite the home loss to the Islanders, they got a point out of it, and that combined with the wins in Dallas and Arizona have given them points in seven of eight.

“And _you_ points in seven of eight,” Tanger points out on the plane. “You’re our, ah, rabbit foot, Sid!”

Shearsy turns to Olli and starts explaining, “That’s a charm, like, you keep it with you and it makes you luc—”

Olli gives Shearsy a flat look and purses his lips. “We have rabbit foot in Finland, too. America didn’t make up everything.”

He high-fives Horny without looking, and then holds his Kindle up in front of his face while Shearsy pouts.

“Aren’t you happy to be in charge of these idiots?” Flower asks Sid sweetly.

Sid just sighs.

The high spirits carry over to the first game of the road trip. Sid always feels bad for Flower when it’s a high-scoring game, but he can’t deny the excitement that he feels, or the building energy that sizzles on the bench during games like these.

_Something really good is going to happen in this game_ , Sid thinks; then he immediately knocks on the wood of the bench. He’s not going to be responsible for jinxing them all.

When the puck bounces off of Sid’s backside and over Quick’s blocker, Sid’s first reaction is pure elation – it’s a close game, tied with six minutes to go in the third period, and now the Penguins are ahead. Plus, it’s a goal, and goals are inherently awesome.

Sid’s second reaction, though, is: _I am never, ever going to live this down_. This isn’t the first butt-goal he’s scored, and he remembers well the ribbing he got after the last one.

This ribbing isn’t like the last one, though. Because this time…

Well. Sid’s never been comfortable with raunchy talk, but it’s a whole other level of discomfort to suddenly have twenty of his coworkers cracking filthy jokes about a part of his and Geno’s sex life that…

_…that right now, Geno and I can’t even talk about ourselves_ , he admits, and the thought touches off a soft ache under his breastbone.

So that sucks.

Still, there’s no way to explain that to the guys, and he wouldn’t even if he could—some parts of his relationship with Geno are _not_ for team consumption—so he resigns himself to blushing like a tomato, avoiding Geno’s eyes, and doing his best to rocket through his post-game routine at the speed of light.

And the thing is… he gets it, okay? If it happened to somebody else—or if it happened to _him_ , like, ten days ago—he’d agree that scoring a game-winning goal with his rear end is objectively hilarious. And it’s especially funny if the guy scoring the goal happens to be famous for having a “Baby Got Back”-size booty.

Would he prefer—like, _a lot_ —if the guys kept their chirping confined just to him, and left Geno out of it? Yeah, he really, really would. There’s no part of him that would ever be comfortable hearing Shearsy slap Geno on the back and tell him, “G, I don’t know what you’ve been doing to that butt, but whatever it is, it’s working!” and hearing Tanger immediately crack, “I’m pretty sure _I_ know…”

But he knows the guys don’t mean anything bad by it. Probably some of them are even trying, in their dumb, weird, totally counterproductive way, to make him and Geno feel included or something. So he smiles through his embarrassment, and thinks, _We’ll get through it_. They’re the flavor of the night, but any minute now, some other dumbshit on this team is going to do something stupid and the herd will move on to chirping _that_ person, and Sid and Geno will be off the hook.

Geno, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to see it that way. He doesn’t say anything, but as they progress from the locker room to the showers, then to the pile of sandwiches set up for them outside, and then to the bus, Geno’s reluctant smile turns fixed and tense, then gradually fades into a scowl. The more observant members of the team— _or the stronger readers_ , Sid thinks—back off a little, as Geno’s displeasure becomes more obvious on his face or maybe leaks past his much-improved shields. But not everyone on the team seems to get it, and by the time they all pile out of the bus and into the hotel, Geno looks like…

_Like he’s about to take a dumb penalty_ , Sid thinks, with a touch of nerves. Every so often, another team will get itself in the news for having a fight break out between two players, and he’s always silently judged the captains of those teams… but right now he’s a little worried that if he doesn’t break this up pretty soon, there’s going to be a headline in the _Post-Gazette_ tomorrow that reads: “3 Arrested After Penguins Hotel Brawl.”

He hustles Geno into the elevator and then down the hall as fast as he can, ignoring the catcalls from their teammates, who clearly assume he’s got another reason for hurrying.  He’d rather deal with a little extra embarrassment than with whatever’s probably about to come out of Geno’s mouth.

“You know that when we said Geno should thank your ass for that goal,” Rusty calls down the hallway as Sid follows Geno through the door of their shared hotel room, “we meant with his—”

It’s a relief to slam the door shut and bring an end—for now—to the chirping.

_Of course_ , Sid thinks, with a flicker of nervousness, _now I’m alone with Geno with no excuse not to talk about the great big elephant in the room, so maybe not such a relief after all._

He closes his eyes and rests his head against the door for a second, gathering himself before stepping all the way into the room and setting down his bags.

Geno has stuffed himself into one of the too-small hotel armchairs, shoulders all knotted up and face like a thundercloud.

Sid lays himself out flat on his back on the bed nearer to Geno, then scoots himself around until Geno is in his line of sight. “Come on, G,” he says, placating. “It’s funny, okay?”

Geno, clearly, is not going to play along. “You think is funny?” he asks, flat.

“I do,” Sid says firmly. “Geno—come on. I scored a goal with my butt. Again. How is that _not_ funny?”

Geno’s scowl doesn’t budge.

But Sid’s not giving up. “Pull out your phone – I bet you’ve got a million texts about it. Do it, look—”

Geno extracts his phone from his suit pocket and pokes at it, still surly as a wet cat. Something he sees on the screen makes him half-smile, though, unwillingly.

“Ovechkin?” Sid guesses.

Geno makes a face.

“What did he say?”

Geno sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He say we should trade your ass to Caps, be pretty good fourth-line winger.”

Sid laughs, and Geno ducks his head, still not wanting to smile – but he can’t hide from Sid.

“See? It _is_ funny.”

“Little bit funny,” Geno allows.

“Hey.” Sid props himself up on his elbows. “I get it. I do. But—”

“Make you uncomfortable,” Geno says, scowling again, but it’s a softer look this time, with less snarl in it.

“Yea—” Sid starts to say, and then it clicks.

_Geno’s not pissed off that the guys were joking about our sex life_ , he realizes. _He’s pissed off because he could feel how much it bothered me_.

He tucks his chin down to his chest, where he can feel the little burst of warmth that goes off under his ribcage whenever he’s reminded of how much Geno cares for him.

“Yeah,” he admits, soft. “They did make me uncomfortable. But it’s not their fault, G. They didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

Geno makes a noise that definitely does not indicate agreement, but he unfolds himself up and out of the chair to start unpacking his bag, which is a definite improvement over the brooding.

“If you think about it,” Sid continues, in a spirit of optimism, “it’s kind of… progress, you know?”

Geno gives him a skeptical look.

But Sid persists. “When we were first…” He trails off, not sure of the right word to use. More quietly, he says, “They were so… awkward about it. Afraid, even. You definitely couldn’t imagine them, like… making jokes about our sex life. Telling you to f—”

He bites off the word and then feels stupid. He can say it. They can talk about this.

_But last time we tried, we fought_ , he thinks, and his stomach lurches.

From the way Geno stiffens up where he’s standing over his suitcase, he’s thinking the same thing.

“Sorry,” Sid says, not really sure what he’s apologizing for, just feeling like he should.

“Sorry for what?” Geno asks. When Sid gives him a helpless look, Geno huffs out a breath and plops himself down to lie on the bed next to Sid. “Sorry for talk about fuck?”

Sid winces, which is probably all the confirmation Geno needs, even without the benefit of the bond.

“Hey, hey,” Geno says softly, and he rests a hand on Sid’s side, tugging Sid to face him. “No sorry for talk about fuck. I know we fight before. I know is suck. A lot. But we do good, Sid – good with communicate, with learn. Fuck is not need be scary word.”

Sid appreciates that, and he thinks for the most part Geno’s right, but…

“I notice you didn’t say we’re not going to fight again.” He tries to keep his voice even, but it comes out kind of tight and shaky despite his efforts.

Geno shakes his head. “Can’t promise,” he says simply. “Can’t ever. People have relationship, sometimes they fight. Sometimes even big fight.”

To Geno, who has past relationships to draw on, that may be reassuring. But Sid doesn’t have that experience, or that context. He has LaShawn’s word—and Flower’s—that arguing is normal and isn’t the end of the world, and that counts for something. But it’s different, knowing something second-hand. He wants Geno to understand that – to understand why the fight and its aftermath were so hard on Sid.

So he pulls together his courage and says, “It just… it didn’t feel like a normal fight. It didn’t feel like a normal relationship thing. It felt like…” He bites his lip, not sure whether he should go on. But he kind of thinks he has to. “I thought we might be breaking up,” he confesses, in a very small voice.

It lands on Geno like a blow—he looks shocked—and Sid quickly amends, “Not, like, in my head. In my head I knew that was stupid, I knew that—that we were solid. That we _are_ solid. But my head wasn’t…”

Sid trails off, and Geno picks up his train of thought. “With fight, with yell,” he says, nodding, “head’s not in charge.”

“Yeah.” Sid sighs. “I’ve never had a fight like that before.” He finds Geno’s other hand, lying on the bed between them, and threads their fingers together. “It scared me. A lot,” he admits.

Geno nods again and squeezes his fingers. “We both scared,” he says quietly. “I think is why fight get so bad. Mad—mad is more easy, I think, than scared.”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees, kind of impressed that Geno figured that out without a LaShawn to help him. “I think that’s right.”

He can admit, now, that he’d made the offer in the first place out of fear: the mental and emotional work he’d done to get to a place where a blowjob was okay had been good, but… hard. So hard. He’d been afraid that if they didn’t keep pushing while they still had some kind of momentum, didn’t strike while the iron was hot, then he’d have to start the whole process over from the beginning when he _was_ ready to try, later on, and it’d be ten times harder.

And below that fear, closer to his heart, had been the fear of disappointing Geno: of leaving him unsatisfied when Geno has always given Sid everything he could want.

Sid had said, _I’m a fucking adult, you don’t get to decide what I’m ready for,_ and later, when it had gotten really bad, he'd said, _If you think I’m so fragile, then why even touch me at all?_

But what Sid meant was, _I’m scared of getting hurt, but I’m even more scared of letting you down. And I’m scared that if we let this moment slip away, I’ll have to drag myself through hell again to keep from disappointing you._

Geno was afraid, too, although Sid’s less sure he knows the whole of the reason why. He was afraid of hurting Sid, for sure – that, above all else. _Maybe afraid of… change, too_ , Sid had thought, _or of too much change at once, even good change. People aren’t good at that. God knows_ I’m _not good at that._

Probably Sid could have figured out a lot of this sooner if he’d talked it through with Geno the very next day, but—he’d been afraid to. Even now, it still feels tender, the healing skin too fragile to be disturbed. But they’ve both scraped up their courage, side by side on this hotel bed, and made a start at it anyway. He thinks that’s cause for hope.

He draws in a big breath, then lets it out. He opens his arms and Geno accepts the invitation, sliding closer on the bed, until Sid can feel his breath on his cheek.

“I love you,” Sid says, up close. He can see every scar on Geno’s face from here – the scars he knows so well that he could draw them from memory.

“Love you, Sid.” Geno kisses him, comforting and chaste. Then he ruins the tender mood by announcing, “I’m punch Rusty. And Horny.”

_Okay, so I guess Geno doesn’t want to talk about it_ , Sid thinks, with a mixture of disappointment and relief. They touched the topic, at least – that’s probably enough progress for now. Every little bit counts.

He sighs and slaps Geno on the arm – not too hard. “Don’t punch my winger. Don’t punch _your_ winger.  They didn’t know it was a whole thing; they’re just fucking dumb.”

“This, we can agree,” Geno says dryly. “Should still fuck off.”

Well, Sid would have liked that… but he doesn’t ask for the impossible. “You know hockey players,” he says. “You show ‘em a sore spot, they’ll poke it.”

“Should fuck off,” Geno repeats, tugging even Sid closer, until his chest is pressed up against Sid’s. Then, slyly, he asks, “ _You_ have sore spot?”

Sid laughs. “From the shot? No. I’ve got a lot of padding back there.”

“Yes,” Geno agrees, appreciatively, as he cranes his neck over Sid’s shoulder to ogle the padding in question. “Best. Well, team is right for one thing: goal like that is deserve nice thank. So thank you, Sid-ass,” he says, and he gives Sid’s right buttcheek a grateful pat.

“That’s all?” Sid jokes—then he freezes. _That was not a smart joke to make_, he thinks. _Not, not, not—_

But apparently _some_ part of Sid’s brain isn’t on board with the avoid-and-ignore strategy – not tonight. It’s probably the same impulse that led him to push the issue of Geno fucking him in the first place: the rip-off-the-band-aid, just-get-it-over-with instinct.

Geno, meanwhile, is giving him a quizzical look. “What you mean, Sid?”

_Yeah, Sid_ , he asks himself, _what_ do _you mean?_

What he means, he thinks, is that what the team was saying may have been a joke, but it’s also… not a bad idea, honestly. Even when you really want to do something, he knows, it’s easier when you have an excuse. And he and Geno have gotten pretty okay at talking about stuff—or he thought they had, before the fight—but it’s also true that there are some things that are easier to say with their bodies. He thinks this might be one of them.

So he says, carefully, “What I mean is, that’s all the thanks it gets? Just a little pat?”

Geno draws back and shoots him a wary look. “What team say is—”

Sid interrupts, “I’m not saying—that, exactly.” He props himself up on his elbow and drapes his other arm across Geno’s side. “I’m saying… well, a really smart guy once told me there’s a lot of other stuff you can do with an ass.”

Geno blinks. “Oh.” The look of surprise on his face melts, for a second, into shy pleasure. Then, in classic Geno fashion, he papers over his shyness with bravado. “Sound like _very_ smart guy, yes,” he says, regally, before smirking at Sid and adding, “Sexy, too, hm?”

Sid grins. “Yeah, he’s pretty sexy. Kind of goofy, though.” His smile softens as he remembers Geno bouncing his face on Sid’s butt like a weirdo – still one of Sid’s favorite sex memories, for some reason.

Geno wrinkles his nose. “Goofy,” he repeats, then shrugs, half-laughing. “Worse things than goofy,” he allows. He rolls onto his back and looks up at Sid. “What, um… what kind of other stuff you want?”

_I want to go back_ , Sid thinks, _to a moment when we were comfortable with each other. When I felt good about how much you liked that part of my body, instead of guilty._

“Well, I was just thinking,” he tells Geno, tentatively, “about how much I liked it that first time, when you just sort of… played around. With my ass. Just kind of… doing whatever. Having fun.”

As the words come out of his mouth, he realizes, troubled, that they haven’t laughed during sex since the fight. Not that he remembers, anyway. That’s not good.

They’ve spent more than a week carefully _not_ talking about the fight, about their sex life, pretending that nothing has changed. But Sid’s sick of pretending – part of the point of having a Geno, he thinks, is having someone you don’t have to pretend with. So he says, “I think we’ve kind of gotten away from that. The… fun, the playing. I… I miss it.”

Once the words are out, he holds his breath. The illusion that everything was okay, just like it was before, was a shared one – something he and Geno built and maintained together. If Geno wants to cling to it, then this won’t work.

But Geno’s eyes go dark, and he draws in a long, shaky breath—summoning his own courage, Sid thinks—before admitting, “I miss too. I miss how is feel before.”

Sid breathes out. Slowly, gently, he collapses onto Geno’s body, resting his cheek on Geno’s chest and sliding his leg between Geno’s knees. Geno’s arms come up to enfold him, and both of them are silent for a moment.

_Okay_ , Sid thinks, _okay_. They’re on the same page. They want the same thing. As long as that’s true, he thinks it’s going to be all right.

“Okay,” he says out loud, and he turns his head to lay a kiss on Geno’s chest.

Geno echoes, “Okay,” and he squeezes Sid in his embrace for just a second. It feels so good. “Pick up head, hmm?” he asks. “Want to see handsome face.”

Sid scoots up the bed a little and props himself up on Geno’s chest. “Here I am,” he says. Impulsively, he drops his shields, hoping that Geno will feel the new curl of optimism unfolding in his chest, and the comfort coursing through him at knowing, for sure now, that the two of them are aiming for the same goal.

Geno smiles, wide. “I feel you happy,” he says softly. “So nice, Sid.” He runs his hand through Sid’s hair and asks, a little tentative, “So your ass want thank, hmm?”

Sid blushes – he’s always been charmed by the ridiculous way that Geno treats his ass and his dick as separate characters with their own desires and opinions, but it always makes him a little embarrassed, too. In a nice way.

“Just… what I said before,” he tells Geno. “The—the playing. Touching, kissing, being… silly, I guess. Playful. I mean, it’s like I said—” He rolls his eyes. “—it’s a silly thing to celebrate, so… we might as well have a silly celebration.” He’s pretty sure Geno will be on board, since he can only think of one time Geno has turned down a chance at going to town on Sid’s ass—but that one time was the time everything blew up, so he’s not going to assume. “What do you think? You up for that?”

Geno makes a considering face and reaches down to palm his own crotch. “Up? No, not up yet,” he reports, grinning. “But don’t worry – I get to play with your ass, I’m get up very soon.”

Sid plants his face against Geno’s chest again so Geno won’t see him smiling; he tries not to reward Geno’s sex puns, although it’s pretty much a lost cause.

“You say you want silly, I’m give silly,” Geno says, unrepentant. “Now… what’s first?” He strokes Sid’s left asscheek thoughtfully and decides, “First is clothes off.”

“I could do a little striptease, if you want,” Sid offers, remembering another one of his favorite sex memories. “It wouldn’t be anything fancy, but…”

The ecstatic look on Geno’s face gives Sid his answer even before the “Yes, Sid, best!” comes out of his mouth.

Geno shucks his own shirt and pants and settles into an armchair, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Sid, meanwhile, digs the lube out of his suitcase and tosses it on the bed, then stands in front of Geno.

“I don’t have any music,” he warns.

Geno shrugs, then offers, “I can sing—”

“ _No_ ,” Sid says firmly. Geno is a talented guy in lots of ways, but he’s basically tone-deaf and Sid’s not putting himself through that.

“I’m best singer,” Geno sniffs, with an air of _you just don’t appreciate my genius_.

Sid gives him a look. “Do you want to argue with me, or do you want me to strip?”

“You’re smart guy, can do both,” Geno tries, but when Sid narrows his eyes, he hastily leans back in his chair and mumbles, “Strip, thank you, Sid, you best.”

Sid cups Geno’s jaw and leans in for a kiss. When he straightens up, he says, “Good choice.” Holding eye contact, Sid slowly unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall off of his shoulders with a little shimmy. He slides one hand up his chest, under his undershirt, and rubs at his left nipple, letting out a soft hum of pleasure.

Geno’s eyes are wide with appreciation, and constantly moving, like he can’t decide whether to focus on Sid’s bare stomach, or his face, or the movement of his fingers over his nipple, obscured by the white cotton.

“Look so good, Sid,” he murmurs.

It’s a nice—and needed—confidence boost: Sid had forgotten how hard it could be to put himself out there, on display. But he can tell Geno’s into it, and that’s what he needs.

He stops teasing himself and pulls off his undershirt, making a show of it, stretching out his arms more than he really needs to, purely for the kick of seeing Geno’s gaze fixate on the flex of his triceps. Then he unzips his slacks and gives himself a good rub through his briefs, just to see what kind of sound Geno will make.

Geno gives him a thick, breathy groan that Sid can almost feel against his skin, and it makes his heart beat faster. He loves it – having the unmistakable proof that Geno wants him. Every part of him.

“Anything you want to say to my dick before I turn around?” he asks, mostly joking.

Geno, of course, takes it seriously. “I’m touch you best later,” he promises, clearly addressing Sid’s groin rather than Sid himself. “Make you feel so good, okay?”

God, Sid really wants to kiss him. And why shouldn’t he? He exchanges a few slow, closed-mouthed kisses with Geno. He adds one last kiss on the bridge of Geno’s nose, and when he says tenderly, “You’re the weirdest person I know,” it comes out sounding like _I love you_.

After that, maybe it should feel strange to turn his back on Geno – but it doesn’t. He wants more than ever to give Geno something special, something he’ll really love. Once he’s turned around, he backs right up until he’s practically in Geno’s lap, then starts inching his slacks down over his waist, swaying his hips back and forth to no rhythm in particular.

Geno lets loose a stream of gratifyingly awed and needy noises as Sid gradually rids himself of his slacks and then—even more slowly—his briefs. As Sid is inching his waistband down over his thighs, Geno apparently can’t contain himself anymore – he coughs and asks, very tentatively, “Um, Sid, is this no-touching dance, or…”

“Oh!” Sid doesn’t need to think about it for more than a second. “No, I want you to touch,” he tells Geno, twisting around to meet Geno’s eyes. “Touching is the whole point, so… go for it.”

Geno doesn’t need to be told twice. “I’m go, I’m go,” he says hurriedly, and he cups each of Sid’s asscheeks in one hand. His hands are so big and warm; Sid shivers. Then he splays out his fingers wide, like he’s trying to cover Sid’s whole ass with his hands, and he moans, “Oh, Sid, oh – so nice to touch!”

“It feels nice to me, too,” Sid tells him, closing his eyes and leaning back a little into Geno’s hands.

“Top is so nice, with little go-in part,” Geno narrates as he sweeps his fingertips over the top of Sid’s ass, pausing at the hollow in the small of Sid’s back. “And then middle stick out so much, like say, ‘Look at me!’ And I’m look, and lots look, but lots don’t touch, only me.” He sounds smug as he strokes the swell of Sid’s ass possessively. “And bottom have so nice little, um, crease, with thigh, and I remember is sensitive.”

It is, and Sid shivers again as Geno traces over that crease. “Yeah. That’s really good.” He can’t help dropping his own hand down between his legs and giving himself another rub – he’s not hard yet, but he’s getting there and he’s craving the stimulation. He twists around again and asks Geno, “Hey, do you want to take this party to the bed?”

Geno looks very pleased to be getting out of the too-small armchair. He springs to his feet and trails Sid over to the bed, keeping his hands glued to Sid’s butt the whole time.

“It’s not going to vanish if you stop touching it, you know,” Sid says, amused.

There’s a brief pause and then Geno asks, sounding nonplussed, “…but _why_ I’m stop touching it?”

Sid laughs as he crawls up on the bed. He lays down on his front and props himself up on his elbows. Then he wiggles his butt back and forth a little; Geno responds with an actual squeak of delight.

“Is like it say hello,” he coos, and Sid cracks up again.

Undeterred, Geno replies, “Hello, Sid-ass!” with a cheerful pat. Then, framing Sid’s buttcheeks in his hands, he ponders, “Hmm… What I’m do now with best ass…” and then announces, “I think kisses. Kisses always good.”

“I like kisses,” Sid agrees.

He’s expecting big, smacking kisses or little butterfly kisses, like last time. But Geno is on a different mission tonight. He dots long, lavish kisses over the surface of Sid’s asscheeks, letting out pleased little curls of sound every time his lips touch Sid’s skin. When he’s had enough of that, he turns to nibbling gently at the crease where Sid’s ass meets his thighs.

Sid tries, he really _tries_ to keep still, to let Geno do his thing and not interrupt, but Geno _knows_ he’s sensitive there, and Sid is pretty fucking hard by now, and he can’t keep his hips from twitching down into the bedspread.

Geno, of course, notices; with his mouth pressed up against Sid’s skin, Sid can feel the new curve of his smile. “Ohh… you turn on, hmm?”

 “Y-yeah,” Sid says, and it comes out breathy.

“Good. Make me hot, too.” Geno shifts his weight on the bed, and then Sid feels Geno’s fingertips start to swirl over the top of his ass – so light it’s a tease, barely there. “You want I stop? Suck you, ride you?”

“No, don’t stop,” Sid says. “It’s… this is good. This is _really_ good.” It’s crazy hot to have Geno’s whole focus on him like this, zeroed in on Sid’s body like nothing else in the world exists. And it gives him something deeper, too, to be reminded of how much Geno _loves_ his body – to be reminded that his body can, and does, make Geno happy and turn Geno on just like this. Geno’s not deprived, or disappointed, the way Sid’s midnight worries sometimes whisper that he must be.

God knows what soup of emotions Geno reads from all that, but it makes him pause, and press a kiss between Sid’s shoulder blades.

“Happy you like,” he says softly.

He picks up where he left off, and so do Sid’s hips, rocking down into the mattress.

He’s still touching Sid really gently, and Sid is into that, for sure. But as Geno keeps going, it starts to feel like… not enough, somehow.

When he figures out what’s missing, Sid twists around to catch Geno’s eye and tells him, “You can, uh… squeeze. If you want to. I’d like that.”

Geno frowns, looking doubtful. “Last time, you say no, is too hard—”

“When I wasn’t turned on,” Sid reminds him. He thinks Geno probably knows that, remembers that, but if he’s being extra cautious, Sid can’t blame him. “But now I am turned on – I really, _really_ am, so…”

“Ohh.” Geno nods. Then, experimentally, he kneads Sid’s asscheeks, nice and firm and _good_ and Sid moans from deep in his chest.

“So nice _noise_ , Sid!” Geno sounds thrilled. “I’m make more.”

And he _does_. He doesn’t neglect the gentle touches—the sweet-slow kisses or the light caresses that make Sid shiver and make his skin electric with anticipation—but he’s not shy about the deeper touches, either, massaging Sid’s ass with unabashed appreciation. It feels incredible. As Sid’s hips start to thrust against the sheets in earnest, Geno gets a good grip and urges Sid on, whispering, “Come, Sid, yes, I want, I _want_ , feel so good—”

Sid hasn’t come humping the bed since he was a teenager, and it occurs to him, distantly, that maybe he should be embarrassed, but he’s not. Geno _wants_ him to come, Geno thinks it’s awesome, and fuck it, it feels good. He switches off that nagging, self-conscious part of his brain and just gives himself up to the friction on his cock and the attention that Geno is lavishing on his ass, until he reaches the peak and makes a shameless mess of himself and the hotel bedspread. It’s glorious.

Lying there like a limp noodle, full of goodwill toward the world, Sid takes a moment to just surf on the waves of endorphins crashing over him.

Geno is petting his ass, easing off into slow strokes with his palm. “So hot, Sid,” he murmurs. “So hot, see you come like this, because I touch you here.”

“Mmhmm,” Sid says, lazy. He starts scooting out of the wet spot and Geno shuffles over with him, still straddling his thighs. Once Sid’s more comfortable, he squirms around to lie on his back and looks up at Geno.

The first thing that strikes him is that Geno is still in his underwear, which is just wrong.

“Oh, get that off,” Sid mumbles, pawing at the boxer briefs. “And why?”

Geno scrambles off the bed to comply, giving Sid a rueful look as he does it. “Too much distract – I don’t even notice.”

Sid shakes his head, smiling a little and taking the opportunity to ogle Geno’s legs as he peels off his underwear. “Unbelievable. So what do you want to do now?” He’s assuming the answer is going to have something to do with his butt, so he rolls back onto his front and wiggles again, earning a pleased hum from Geno, climbing back onto the bed.

“So nice,” he murmurs, stroking his hand in a circular motion over Sid’s right asscheek, and then his left. “So nice to look, so nice to touch, so nice to kiss. So nice to know I can make you feel good here, and is feel good for me, too.” He bends to drop a kiss on the very center of Sid’s left cheek. “You best,” he says sincerely, and Sid blushes.

He’s not sure whether that compliment was intended for him or just for his butt, but either way, it feels good.

Then Geno is quiet for a long minute. His hands go still on Sid’s skin, and Sid wonders what he’s waiting for: Is he deciding what he wants? Thinking about how to ask for it? Just lost in contemplation of Sid’s ass?

He hears Geno take a slow breath, and then his hands move to spread across the breadth of Sid’s ass, his thumbs lightly resting on the cleft. “Can I… look? Like last time?”

His voice shakes, and on the word “look,” it cracks.

_He’s trying so hard_ , Sid thinks, and it hurts him for a minute that it has to be so hard, when last time it was so easy. But it means a lot, that Geno is _willing_ to try, _wants_ to try – that he’s willing to lay himself bare asking for something.

_And that he’s willing to trust me to say no_ , Sid thinks, with a belated spark of realization. _Part of what made me so mad when we were fighting was that he didn’t trust what I told him about what I wanted in bed._

With that in mind, he doesn’t take the request lightly. He takes his time, really thinks about how it would feel to have Geno expose him there, and there’s nothing about it that scares him. And once he reaches that conclusion, his mind carries him further, into the thought of something Geno had asked for last time, but that didn’t feel right, then. It feels right now.

“Yes,” says Sid, resting his head on his crossed arms and closing his eyes. “You can definitely look. And if you want to, you can touch me there, too.”

Geno sucks in a sharp breath and asks, “You sure, Sid? Really sure?”

“I’m not sure it’ll be good,” Sid says, truthfully. He _can’t_ be sure of that, not when they’re trying it for the first time. “But I’m sure I—I’m sure I want to try. And if I need to stop, then that’s okay, and we’ll stop, and it doesn’t mean you messed up or I messed up. It’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Geno echoes, stroking Sid’s ass. He says, “Okay,” a couple more times, as if he’s psyching himself up, and then his hands pause on Sid’s skin for a minute. He tells Sid, “Okay, so I’m—I’m touch with side of hand, not fingers, so your body’s not think I’m try to go inside and get scared. Okay?”

Sid would never have thought of that himself, but it’s such a _Geno_ idea: smart and thoughtful and a little weird, but so incredibly sweet. “That… that sounds perfect,” he manages – his throat feels thick. “Thank you.”

“Not have to thank.” Geno leans in to kiss the spot on Sid’s back that’s just over his heart. Then he sits back up and announces, “I’m look first.”

He pulls apart Sid’s asscheeks and makes a pleased “Mmm” sound. “Still so nice to look,” he says, sounding intensely satisfied. “Still so pink and cute!”

“My asshole is not _cute_ ,” Sid insists, with no more hope of convincing Geno than he had last time – but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Sid so silly,” Geno says, clearly addressing Sid’s hole. “He’s not understand, but cute is good! Who’s not like cute?”

Sid throws Geno a _look_ over his shoulder. “Would you want me talking about your ‘cute little dick’?”

Geno throws back his head and laughs. Then, eyes twinkling, he retorts, “Can’t. My dick too big for cute. But this is why asshole is special, Sid! Is _supposed_ to be all small and secret and hiding. And I like so much,” he adds, his voice going all low and dopey, and he hunches over to admire the asshole in question from up close. “Hello,” he coos. “Hello, nicest.” There’s a half-second of silence, and then he says, a little nervously, “I’m touch now, okay?”

Sid consciously relaxes the muscles in his shoulders and sets his head back down on his folded arms. “Yeah. Okay.”

Very gently, Geno nestles his left hand into the space between Sid’s cheeks – his fingers brush against Sid’s balls, and the side of his hand slots very neatly into Sid’s cleft, with the tip of his thumb resting on the dimple where Sid’s cheeks part.

Sid breathes in, breathes out, and checks how he’s feeling – it’s good, he confirms. His mind isn’t taking him anywhere but here, sandwiched warm and content between the bedspread and Geno’s hand, just where he should be.

“Good?” Geno checks.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“ _Good_.” Geno’s relief is so clear from his voice that Sid can’t imagine reading would tell him anything more. “I’m move my hand a little, then?”

Sid considers that, and again, there’s nothing about it that seems scary – movement, friction, is bound to feel different than simple pressure, but not, he thinks, in a way that’s likely to remind him of the bond crisis.

So he says, “Sounds good, G.”

Geno starts rubbing the side of his hand up and down over Sid’s hole, and Sid was right: that’s not scary or bad, at all – in fact, that’s—

“That’s really good,” Sid murmurs, and without meaning to, he starts shifting his hips back and forth in time with the movement of Geno’s hand. He’d forgotten how good this feels: how the nerve endings in his hole come to life so gently and gradually, blooming into a slow, shivery-warm surface pleasure, different in kind and intensity from the immediate, deep-rooted heat that comes from touching his dick.

Geno doesn’t miss a beat, moving his hand in time with Sid’s hips, and whispering, “Oh, Sid – you—you _like_!” There’s a catch in his voice, like he’s taken off guard by the strength of his own reaction. “Sid—you come again? Like this?”

Sid’s body gives him the answer to that right away. “Nah,” he tells Geno. It’s not that he doesn’t think he could get hard again, but he can tell it wouldn’t go any farther than that – his body is happy to accept this extra dose of pleasure, but he feels more like purring in contentment than moaning in ecstasy. “I don’t have another one in me tonight, but I’m still enjoying it – a _lot_ ,” he adds, just to make sure Geno knows.

“I can _see_ ,” Geno replies, voice gone raspy.

“Oh, yeah?”

Geno’s “ _Yeahhh_ ” comes out as a moan, stretched and low.  “I can _read_ you like, I can _feel_ – is best, Sid, most hot, know you like so much—”

Sid hears the familiar pop of the cap on the lube bottle, and then the slick sound of Geno stroking his own dick, as Geno starts to babble a little, the words falling over each other: “I love, Sid, I love is know you so hot for I’m touch your asshole, so p-pleasure—”

_He’s losing his English_ , Sid notices with satisfaction – that means Geno is really worked up. “Tell me _you’re_ going to come,” he demands, rocking his hips back and forth harder now, picking up on Geno’s urgency and the rhythm of both his hands. “You’ve been so patient, waiting, making me feel good—”

“You feel good, yes,” Geno manages raggedly. “So good and yes, I’m come, for you, for touch you, is so _much_ , Sid—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sid says, and he can’t resist twisting his head around to see the picture Geno makes: pink all down his chest, lube glistening on the head of his cock as his right hand works faster and faster, his long thighs framing Sid’s ass, and it seems perfectly obvious what should happen next. “You should come on my ass,” he says, decisive.

Geno’s cheeks turn bright red, and he makes a high, helpless sound Sid has never heard before. He still somehow pulls together the presence of mind to ask, stumbling, “S-Sid, oh – y-you sure—”

Sid urges, “I’m sure, yeah, do it—”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Geno says, “ _fuck_!” And then there’s nothing but a stream of heartfelt Russian, which doesn't end until a hot spatter of come lands on his ass and Geno’s hand, still tucked between Sid’s cheeks. Geno groans and folds forward, pressing his face into Sid’s back, then lets out a few other choice Russian curse words.

“You okay back there?” Sid asks, amused.

Geno replies with a muffled, “ _Khorosho_.” Then he groans again and tips over to lie on his side, burying his face against Sid’s shoulder. He gently extricates his left hand from Sid’s cleft, but only so he can use it to stroke the surface of Sid’s ass – lightly at first, and then more assertive, more of a massage…

“Are you rubbing it _in_?” Sid asks, when he finally figures it out.

The touches pause, and when he rolls to the side to see Geno’s face, his expression is distinctly guilty.

“It’s not like I don’t know you’re weird,” Sid says, affectionate. “Go on, go to town – I don’t mind.”

Geno beams. “You best, Sid.” He props himself up on one elbow and devotes himself single-mindedly to massaging every drop of his jizz into Sid’s skin. When he’s done, he shuffles down the bed and places a grateful kiss on the center of each of Sid’s buttcheeks. “Thank you, Sid-ass,” he says solemnly. “You score best goal, so I’m give best thank, and I hope you like.”

Sid reaches back to stroke his fingers through Geno’s hair. “I liked it for sure,” he says. “Now come on, let’s clean up, eh?”

Geno grumbles about having his “after-shine” cut short—Sid has never had the heart to correct him and hopes no one ever does—but he cheers up when Sid points out that it’s only fair for Geno to wash his ass, since he’s the one who got it messy.

The familiar ritual of cleaning up is comforting – they’re used to moving around each other in sync, directing each other out of the way with a gentle touch if necessary.

When Sid is pulling on his sweats, though, Geno breaks from the familiar dance to grab Sid and just… hold him. He tucks his face into the crook of Sid’s neck, and just breathes in and out, wrapped tight around Sid, buck naked, with no explanation.

“Hey,” Sid says gently, running his fingers through Geno’s hair. “What’s up, G?”

Geno sighs—Sid can feel it on his skin—and says, muffled, “Is just really good, Sid. Good to be okay again. Good to _know_ we okay again.”

The words of agreement are on Sid’s tongue, but he hesitates. He does feel better, for sure. And he thinks they’re on better, surer footing together than they were yesterday. But “better” isn’t the same thing as “fixed” or “solved.” _It’s not that easy_ , he thinks, with regret. _And I know it. And I bet Geno knows it, too_.

He doesn’t want to say that, though: it’s been a long day, they’re both feeling good, and he doesn’t want to start a fight or be a dick when Geno seems so happy. So he presses a kiss to the shell of Geno’s ear and keeps his mouth shut.

With a reader, of course, keeping your mouth shut doesn’t mean keeping your thoughts to yourself.

Geno pulls back and gives him a long look. Quietly, he says, “Things _not_ okay?” There’s no hint of accusation or hurt feelings in his voice – he sounds like a guy who genuinely just wants to know where they stand.

_Me too_ , Sid thinks. That uncertainty—the befuddled shock of _why are we fighting, how did this go so wrong_ —is still following him around, and he doesn’t think he can say everything’s fine until he knows where Geno was coming from. And he can’t know that unless Geno is willing to tell him.

“It’s not that things aren’t okay,” he says finally. He tugs up his sweatpants and then sits on the end of the bed closest to the door. When he realizes he’s settled into his media-scrum posture, he winces – he doesn’t need to treat a conversation with Geno that way, _shouldn’t_ treat a conversation with Geno that way.

He looks up at Geno and asks, “Can you, um, sit next to me?”

Geno immediately folds himself up, cross-legged, on the bed, facing Sid. It helps. Then he reaches out and takes one of Sid’s hands, and that helps even more.

Fortified with Geno’s support, Sid takes a deep breath and gets to the meat of it. “It’s that… I still don’t understand what happened,” he explains. “I don’t understand why you were… so mad.”

The choice of words isn’t what Sid wanted—he sounds like a fucking kindergartener—and his voice came out embarrassingly plaintive, but… it’s the truth, and at least he got it out.

Geno checks, “Mad… when we fight?”

Sid nods. “If I don’t understand,” he says, meeting Geno’s gaze, “then I’m always going to have to be scared that some other thing I do might make you mad again out of nowhere, and so I’m always going to be scared of like… should I say this thing? Should I do this thing? You know?”

“I know,” Geno says, although he doesn’t look happy.

Sid wants to hear him out, but he has one more thing to get across. “What we had before—what I think we’re both missing now—was that we were… comfortable around each other,” he says. Maybe that sounds boring, but God, he didn’t realize how important it was until it was gone. “And we can’t get back to that if I’m—if I’m scared all the time of making you mad.”

Geno is silent for a moment. Sid just waits, still holding Geno’s hand.

Eventually, Geno looks down at the bedspread and says, very quietly, “Don’t know what to say, Sid. Feel bad, really bad – never want to make you scared of me—”

“Oh, shit, no,” Sid says, horrified. He grabs Geno’s other hand and squeezes it for emphasis. “That’s not what I meant; I’m not scared _of you_ , that you’d… yell or hurt me or something. Never, okay?”

Geno looks relieved, but the tension doesn’t completely leave his frame. “Then—”

“When I say I’m scared, what I mean is… scared of us falling apart,” Sid says, with difficulty; now it’s his turn to look down at the bedspread. “Scared of losing you.” So quietly that he’s not sure Geno will hear him, he confesses, “That’s—that’s what I was scared of all along.”

“Sid…” There’s a note of protest in Geno’s tone, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Before he loses his nerve, Sid gets out, “I-I was scared of a lot of things. I guess.” His voice wobbles, but, in a weird way, he’s proud of himself: a year ago, he thinks, he could never have said that out loud.

To Sid’s surprise, though, Geno laughs – a breathy, frustrated sound. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, untangling his hands from Sid’s and pressing his face into his palms and breathing in and out once, before looking back up at Sid. “I _know_ , Sid. Is why… Fuck.” He laughs again – still a little frustrated, but this time there’s also a splash of genuine humor in it. With a rueful look down at his own—still naked—body, he says, “Is really hard have serious talk like this when I’m no clothes.”

Sid blushes, embarrassed at not noticing – he can’t even imagine carrying on such a tough conversation while also being _literally_ exposed. “Oh my god, yes, sorry, put on some pants.”

Obviously reluctant, Geno says, “I’m not want to interrupt, is important…” but when Sid shakes his head, Geno is quick to jump up from the bed and pull on some sweatpants. Then he blows out a breath and sits back down next to Sid, with a determined set to his jaw. “Okay, we start again.”

Looking directly at Sid, he begins, “I _know_ you scared, Sid, before. I know you pushing, I know you not ready, I can _feel_ you so scared, but—you lie to me, Sid.” His voice breaks, and his eyes go dark and wounded. Sid wants to protest, but he bites his lip – Geno heard him out, and he owes it to Geno to give him the same chance.

“You say is fine, say you not scared, say you want, and Sid…” Geno sighs; his back and shoulders are all hunched and rounded, like a curled-up fist. “I _know_ is not true,” he says, voice tight, “and is make me crazy. I’m not want to get mad, but how I’m not mad when you lie, and—and try to make me— _hurt_ you?”

“ _Hurt_ me—” Sid repeats, feeling like he’s been laid out flat by a hard check from behind. It wasn’t easy hearing what Geno had to say, but it all at least made sense to him—until that last part. “Geno, I wasn’t— _what_ —”

“You tell me you want I fuck you,” Geno says, head bowed. “You say you want do right away.” Sid can hear the anger seeping into his voice, his accent growing thicker and his words pouring out faster. “I say, no, wait, give time, already we make so big change with do blowjobs, don’t rush – but you say is _not_ rush, you ready, you want, and is—is _bullshit_ , Sid.” He looks up, right at Sid, and what strikes Sid most about the look on his face—what _hurts_ Sid most—is how tired he looks, even through his anger. “Same martyr bullshit I think you’re not do anymore. You say I’m mad – yes, some mad, but most is I’m _scared_.”

Sid can’t hear that and not reach for Geno, heart sore. “Geno, I’m so sorry—”

Geno shakes his head, cutting Sid off. Quietly, he says, “I can read you pushing, _pretending_ – pretending to be okay, pretending is good, and is make me scared because I think maybe—maybe you do _before_.”

Sid feels like he’s holding his breath. “Maybe I did… what?”

“Pretend,” Geno says, looking back at Sid with a world of misery in his eyes. “Make me think… maybe we do thing I think is good, and I’m so distract, and I’m so… trust, that I’m not see is bad for you, is push, and you pretend.” Tears start to spill out of the corners of his eyes. “I’m scared maybe I’m hurt you already and not even know,” he whispers.

“Oh, Geno, _no_ ,” Sid says, with all his heart – his own eyes are wet, but his voice doesn’t shake. It kills him to know that Geno’s been carrying this fear around for a _week_ , but he can put a stop to it right now. He straddles Geno’s lap and frames Geno’s face in his hands, looking deep into his eyes as he swears, “Not ever. I would _never, ever_ let that happen. I promised I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”

Geno tries to look away, saying, “But you _do_ , Sid, or—you try. With fucking – I can _feel_ —”

“I—no. _No_ ,” Sid says again. Desperate for Geno to believe him, he picks up Geno’s left hand and presses it to his own heart, as if Geno can absorb his sincerity through the skin. Quietly, he admits, “I won’t say I’ve never thought about it – about doing something I wasn’t comfortable with just because you wanted it. I thought that way for a long time, and people don’t just… change overnight. But when I asked you to fuck me, that wasn’t a martyr thing. That wasn’t… for you.”

Geno gives him a disbelieving look, which is fair – Sid knows what _he_ meant, but as soon as he said it, he realized it was a dumb way to express the thought. He tries again: “In part it was for you, for sure, but what I mean is, it wasn’t, ‘I don’t want this now but I’m going to do it anyway because Geno wants it.’ It was, ‘I want to do this now because… because I’m going to have to do it _some time_ , and if we wait, then…’” He bites his lip.

“Then what, Sid?” asks Geno. “What’s so bad about wait?”

“Then—then I’d have to start all over,” Sid says, bowing his head. He’s suddenly swamped by a wave of exhaustion – the two of them have been talking so long, and it’s been so rough, and he doesn’t fucking want to go into this part. He knows it’ll make him sound like a coward. And he’s fighting the rising feeling that maybe it’s just… wrong, too. That what he believed about the weight of starting over and the possibility that he could avoid it was crap. _Please don’t make me talk about this_ , he thinks—but that’s cowardly, too. And unfair. Geno told Sid his fears and frustrations; Sid can’t justify doing any less.

He feels Geno’s arms curve around his back, and he looks up, surprised. Geno gives him a small smile and says, hesitantly, “I read is hard for you, need maybe little bit comfort. Is good?”

“Yeah,” Sid says, touched, and he leans in for a soft kiss. Close like this, with their arms around each other, it _is_ easier to find the words, and to get them out.

He begins, “It was… it was a lot. Before. Going through everything so I could get to a place where I was okay with blowing you. It was important work, good work, but… it was really hard.” It goes against every instinct he has, talking like this – making a big deal of his own struggles, almost like he’s bragging or something. But if he downplays it, then it’ll sound like he was willing to throw a grenade into their relationship over something that wasn’t that big a deal, when the truth is that only being scared shitless could ever have brought Sid to the point of saying something so hurtful it made Geno cry.

Taking a deep breath, he continues, “Making myself… think about the bond crisis all the time, remember it all the time, talk about it—” He presses closer against Geno’s body, shivering at the memory. “That was… like I said. It was a lot.” That’s not very eloquent, but it’s the best he can do. “So the thought of waiting, letting it all fade, letting myself put it away, and then… starting all over from the beginning? Dragging it up all over again, I—” He pauses, and Geno strokes his back, so patient.

Sid’s next words feel like jagged stones as they move through his mouth. “I was a coward,” he says, low. “I couldn’t face it. That’s why I wanted to push through. Even if I was nervous, even if it seemed a little fast, I just—”

He runs out of words and looks at Geno mutely.

Geno doesn’t look frustrated or scared anymore – just sad. He cups Sid’s cheek with one hand, and says, “Sid, you don’t _have to_ do. Don’t have to start over, think about bond crisis all the time again. Like you say, is hard, is ask a lot.” His thumb sweeps back and forth over Sid’s cheekbone for a silent moment, and then he says, holding Sid’s gaze, “Maybe we just… don’t do, Sid. Not ever. And it’s okay.”

It’s not the first time Geno’s said that – he said it months ago when they first talked about this, back in his kitchen, when Sid was chopping tomatoes and trying so hard to be brave. And it’s not like Geno is telling him something he doesn’t know… but the dumb, weird, horrible, bullshit thing about the human brain, he thinks, is that _knowing_ something isn’t the same thing as _believing_ it, and hearing Geno repeat it, especially now… well, it helps.

There’s still a part of Sid that doubts – maybe there always will be. But he has the mental machinery now, thanks to his work with LaShawn, to set that doubt aside; it doesn’t help anything. If Geno someday changes his mind—feels disappointed, wants more than what Sid is giving him—he’ll say so. For Sid to sit here right now making decisions based on the assumption that Geno is bullshitting him… that’s stupid. That doesn’t do either of them any good.

But Sid wasn’t bullshitting, either. When he told Geno this wasn’t all about pleasing him, he meant it. When you love someone, he thinks, it’s hard to untangle what you want for yourself from what you want for them, and maybe you shouldn’t even try… but to the extent that he _can_ untangle it, he feels that having Geno inside him, sharing that intimacy, is something he wants for his own pleasure, too. Something he wants enough to pay the price for it, as hard as that will be.

“It means a lot,” he says slowly, “to know that it’s okay with you if we never do that. But I think… it’s not okay with me. Because this is something that I want. For me, and for both of us. Not because of guilt. Just because I think… it would be good.” He shrugs, and gives Geno a small smile.

Geno smiles back, but it’s a timid thing. “I’m happy you say,” he says. “But want is not mean we have to do, because want is not… only thing?” His face goes tight with frustration, and he says, “Sorry, Sid, is hard to say in English—”

“It’s okay, you’re doing great—”

“Want is not only thing,” Geno tries again, watching Sid closely, “because is work also. Hard work. And if you don’t want so much that you want do work, this is okay, too. Don’t have to do work. Not ever.”

The words _of course I want to do the work_ try to climb out of Sid’s mouth so fast that he almost chokes on them. He's always taken great pride in being hard-working – and, more, in being _seen_ as hard-working. Even the people who hate him, who call him all kinds of nasty things, never call him lazy. And Geno’s words push a button in Sid that he didn’t know he had, one that makes him want to set his jaw and dig in his heels and insist that he’s _going_ to do the work and just _try_ to stop him. _I do have to do the work_ , that part of Sid thinks. _Because if I don’t, then I’m not me anymore_.

But this isn’t putting in reps with the barbell or practicing faceoffs, and when he stops and takes a metaphorical deep breath, he can recognize that. His sex life with Geno shouldn’t ever be a _duty_. Tonight was a good reminder of that: that sex should be joyful, even when they have heavy things to work through.

So he says, “I… I don’t have to do the work,” and if not every part of him truly believes that, well… he’s getting there. At least he can say the words. There was a time he couldn’t even have done that. “But…”

_But I want to_ , is what he was about to say. But is it true?

He feels instinctively that it is. Which is fucking weird considering that the whole reason they fought in the first place was that he was trying to _avoid_ doing that work. That he was shit-scared of it. _So what’s changed?_ he thinks.

His eyes flutter shut as he sits with that question, panning through his own thoughts and motivations looking for the glint of an explanation. He murmurs, “I’m thinking,” into Geno’s ear, just so Geno knows he hasn’t gone catatonic or something, and Geno nods and murmurs back, “Is good. You take all time you need.”

Sid’s mind keeps circling back to something Geno said a minute ago: _want is not only thing, because is work also. And if you don’t want so much that you want do work, then you don’t do_. It sounded so simple when he said it. To have the thing, you’ve got to work for it. That, Sid thinks, is the difference between how he’s thinking now, and how he was thinking when they fought. The difference is that, some time over the course of his conversation with Geno, without even realizing it, he let go of the idea that he could do this _without_ working for it. And with that option off the table, then it really is as simple as Geno made it sound: the only question is if he wants to take this step badly enough to face the emotional work that he was afraid to do before. And he does.

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “I want to do the work,” he tells Geno.

Geno nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. Tracing his fingers over Sid’s cheekbone, he says, “Okay, but… Sid, you just talk about how you _don’t_ want to do this work, how it scare you—”

Sid almost smiles at hearing his own thoughts echoed so closely by Geno. Fortunately, he walked himself through this, so he’s pretty sure he can walk Geno through it, too.

He tilts his face to lean into Geno’s touch and admits, “It does scare me. But I want the thing that comes after doing the work—comes _from_ the work. And there’s no way to get that without doing the work.”

It’s too hard, all of a sudden, to look Geno in the eye, so Sid turns his head away. “That was the lie,” he says softly, and it was a lie that he really, really wanted to be true – a lie that hurts to lose, even though he knows it did so much more harm than good. “It was me telling myself that there was some way _around_ it, like there was some way to just… coast on all the blowjob work we did, like a… a shortcut. But there aren’t any shortcuts. I was just fooling myself.”

“Oh, Sid.” Geno wraps both arms around Sid again and lays a kiss in the center of his forehead. He murmurs, “I’m sorry, _solnyshka_ ,” and Sid knows that Geno must have read his grief, and understood what he was grieving: the dream of normal. The dream of what he could have offered Geno if their relationship had started in comfort and safety instead of fear and guilt.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you, G,” Sid murmurs back, quiet as a secret in the inch of air between their mouths. “I didn’t think I _was_ lying. When I said I wanted you to fuck me that night, I really believed that was what I wanted.”

Geno nods. “I see now,” he agrees. “And I’m sorry, Sid – sorry for yell, and fight. Is stupidest thing,” he says more softly, looking down, “yell at person already scared. Should hold you, have talk with you – we could say all this stuff then instead of fight, but I get mad and yell and is all wrong.”

“You were scared, too,” Sid points out. “And I did my share of yelling by the end.”

“Yes, you yell very good,” Geno says ruefully.

There’s a comfortable pause while they let the conversation settle, drinking in the warmth of the bond.

Then Geno says, with a hint of a smile, “Sid, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, G.”

Geno’s smile goes a little bit crooked, and he says, “Love you, but you maybe little bit heavy and legs maybe go little bit sleep.”

“Oh, man!” Sid climbs off of Geno’s lap, laughing through his embarrassment—laughing maybe a little harder than the situation deserves because it feels so good to bleed off some tension. “You should have said, G!”

Geno falls backward, lying on the bed and pouting up at Sid. “I’m not think of! And when I think of, I don’t want interrupt.”

“That’s fair,” Sid allows. He walks over to his suitcase and starts picking through it aimlessly, still trying to work out some of the leftover nervous energy from their conversation.

“I know we already talk lots,” Geno says, still laid out flat on the bed, “and is a lot and is good we not be serious anymore now so we can sleep tonight. But is one more thing I want to say, if it’s okay. If no, can wait.”

The truth is that Sid would kind of rather be done – but he also doesn’t want either of them leaving important things unsaid, and he’s curious about what Geno has to say. “It’s okay, yeah – go for it.” He leans back on the table where he set his suitcase and waits.

Geno shrugs, looking a little hesitant. “I’m not therapist like LaShawn, but just want to say… I think maybe is not need to be all like you think: not need to be all scary, dark.” He offers Sid a tentative smile. “Can maybe be sometimes fun, light. Like tonight: we have fun and if is feel right to try new butt-thing, then we try, and if no, is not right, then we just don’t do, and still is good.” He shrugs again, as if it doesn’t matter – but he’s watching Sid intently.

Sid thinks about it, walking closer to the bed—to Geno—as his mind works. There’s a part of him that’s saying _it’s not that easy_ , and that’s probably true. As long as they’re pushing boundaries, trying new things, there are times when it _will_ be scary and dark, even when it felt right at first, and everything seemed light and easy. _But sometimes_ , he thinks _, it won’t be. Sometimes it’ll be like tonight: sweet and silly and natural and good, all the way through. There’s something there to be afraid of, I’m not wrong about that. But there’s something there to look forward to, too. And Geno’s right that I haven’t been seeing that._

Sid lies down beside Geno, nestling himself in along the line of Geno’s body and resting his head on Geno’s chest. “You’re really smart,” Sid tells him, as he drapes one arm over Geno’s waist. “You never get enough credit for that.”

“Yes,” Geno agrees, taking the praise as his due – _which is just_ , Sid thinks fondly, _the most Geno thing ever._ “You want cuddles, book, then sleep?” he asks, petting Sid's hair. “Think maybe you have too much tense for this, still.”

“Oh, definitely,” Sid says. He lifts himself up on his elbow and makes a face at Geno. “I’d go to the gym if I didn’t think I’d get ambushed by our dumbfuck teammates and their stupid double entendres. So I was thinking I’d do some simple bodyweight stuff in here, work off some energy that way.”

“No, no – you want go to gym, you go,” Geno insists, scowling. “I’m protect you.”

Sid leans down to give him a peck on the cheek. “You’re sweet. But if you really want to be helpful, you can keep my suitcase from falling off my back while I do push-ups.”

“I’m bondmate, not trainer,” Geno grumbles as Sid climbs out of bed. More seriously, he says, “You know guys still be dumb tomorrow. Say things maybe not so nice to hear.”

Sid shrugs, and he surprises himself a bit with how little the thought bothers him, compared to how unsettled he was by it after the game. He supposes it makes sense – tonight’s discussion brought home that he’s faced down way scarier stuff than tactless teammates. And unlike earlier, he knows he’ll be facing it—all of it—with Geno’s enthusiastic help. “Yeah. I know,” he says. “But as long as you and me are okay, then I don’t really give a shit what anyone else thinks.”

That’s not completely true, of course – there are lots of people whose opinion Sid cares about. And there’s one person in particular whose opinion Sid cares about so much that he cancelled his appointment rather than tell her that he’d made a stupid, destructive decision that would have undermined all the work they’d done together if Geno had been willing to go along with it.

So before he goes to bed that night, Sid leaves a message at LaShawn’s office number: “Hi, LaShawn – it’s Sidney. I’m sorry I cancelled my appointment this week. I’m especially sorry if you were worried. I cancelled it because I did a dumb thing and I didn’t want to tell you. But it’s going to be okay, and all the stuff you talked through with me really helped. I’ll tell you about it when I get back from our road trip in a couple days. So, um. Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

“You ready for bed?” Geno calls from over Sid’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He turns to see Geno sitting up in bed, wearing his reading glasses, waiting for Sid with a fond smile on his face, and it’s everything that Sid, in a fleeting moment of panic, thought he might have lost. But that was stupid. The thread that binds the two of them together is stronger than that. Even though they had scared the shit out of each other, in different ways, they were scared because they loved each other. And even when they were mad as hell at each other, they took care of each other.

_I should have known that_ , he thinks. _And really, deep down, I did. But I’m not sorry to have learned it all over again. I think I’ll be learning it—I hope I’ll be learning it—for the rest of my life._

“Come think in bed,” Geno urges, folding down the covers and patting the spot right next to him. “Is warmer. And company is better.”

“I’m coming,” Sid says, and he suits words to actions. “But no more thinking tonight,” he adds, turning off his bedside light and sliding between the sheets. “I’m worn out.”

“Then no more thinking,” Geno murmurs, bending over to kiss Sid’s forehead. “Just sleep, _solnyshka_. All problems still there tomorrow. All good things, too.”

“Yes,” agrees Sid, scooting closer until he can feel the heat of Geno’s body. “That’s just what I was thinking. Yes.”

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is loved! Even just copying and pasting a line or two that stood out to you means a lot. <3
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://youhideastar.tumblr.com)!


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